


Even Death Didn't Want Me

by Luna_Hart



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alive Aiden, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Banter, Blood and Injury, Bloodlust, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Unstable Aiden, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lambert Needs a Hug (The Witcher), M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Parent Vesemir (The Witcher), Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Scarification, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 70,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25586317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: "Aiden,” Lambert breathed.Geralt's shoulders deflated a little, his breath hissing out through his teeth. “What’s an Aiden?” Jaskier asked in puzzlement, popping out from behind Geralt’s elbow."I saw him,” he exclaimed. “In Oxenfurt. I know it was him. I saw his face.”A Cat Witcher murdered by a fellow brother on the side of the road and a Wolf Witcher murdered by an angry mob inside the walls of Kaer Morhen find themselves both very much alive, taken by a mage in order to further his own perverted experiments.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Aubry, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 101
Kudos: 310





	1. Chapter 1

Fuck these gods damned mages, he snarled silently as he pulled his sword from the smoking corpse. He’d just barely managed to distract the mage with Igni, overwhelming him with it before running him though. It had been dumb fucking luck he’d managed it and that in itself was terrifying. Because they were nowhere near winning.

Everywhere he looked, he saw bodies—on their feet and fighting, dead on the ground. Some burned, some torn to pieces, others looking so peaceful they could be sleeping. He could spot his brothers and teachers throughout the courtyard, too few against the mob. There were too many of them. No human could stand against a Witcher but even they couldn’t hold out against a fucking army forever. For every five they cut down, twenty more took their places. There were too fucking many. And there was still the fucking mages. The mob wouldn’t have ever breached the walls if it hadn’t been for those gods cursed magic-wielding fucks.

“They’ve breached at the South gate,” Rennes roared as he raced passed with Tjold and Gascaden on his heels, blood dripping from their swords. He moved to follow but a hand like a vice closed around his arm just below his elbow. He flinched against the iron hold, fingers curling into Aard before he recognized the silver haired Witcher that held him.

“Take Gwen and Hemminks and protect the pups,” Vesemir barked, golden eyes flickering in the fires that had started to burn the very stones of Kaer Morhen. He thinks he answered. He must have because the sword master gave a curt nod and then disappeared into the fray. Both Witchers he’d named were already standing there, bloodied and soot-stained with swords in hand. Wordlessly, they raced back towards the keep; through the ruined doors, sprinting through the hallways towards the innermost centre of the castle.

He smelled it before he saw it. The scorched, bitter smell lay thick in the air. Sulphur and fire and blood and fear. So much fear it was near overwhelming. Thick and acrid, burning his nose and lungs, coating the inside of his throat with its sticky odour.

Death. It smelled like death.

He wasn’t sure which was worse; the smell or the sight that greeted them as they sprinted towards the doors of the great hall. The wood had been destroyed; the right door hung from a single heavy hinge, the left reduced to splinters.

He’d been with them all just last night, teaching them their lullaby just as it had been taught to him. Now here they all were, splayed out on the floor. Their little bodies were twisted in agony, skin and clothes still smoking from the firestorm that had killed them. And the mages who did it, stood pristine and untouched amongst the carnage.

He barely had time to blink. The mages were quick but Gwen was quicker. The taller Witcher’s shoulder connected with his side, hard. His own momentum was used against him and he went flying. His head cracked wetly against the stone wall as a blaze of blistering heat scorched past him through the ruined doorway.

He was on his feet in the next breath but it was too late. Nothing was left, not even bone. There was nothing left of his brothers but melted metal and ash. His knuckles creaked around his sword hilt—not even a hit like that could make him drop it. That had been beaten out of all of them from a young age. He could practically hear Vesemir’s voice growling in his ear; “You drop your sword, you die, pup. Now move!”

He moved. There was no time for grief. They could grieve when they survived. If they survived. His medallion hummed against his chest and he got his Quen up in time before another firestorm engulfed him. This wasn’t as hot as the first and it burned out quickly. He didn’t hesitate when it did. He threw Aard at the first thing he saw as he charged, catching one of the mages by surprise and throwing him across the hall. He strengthened his Quen as he sliced at the second mage. Either he was once again lucky or the mage was green because his sword opened her throat and she dropped with a gurgle.

The second mage stalked towards him, something glowing around his fingertips. His own fingers twitched, forming the shape of Yrden. Pompous prick stepped right into it and even as something lashed at his shield, he burned the man with a fury of Igni. Rage and hate and grief fuelled the magic past what he could usually accomplish as his lips twisting into a feral snarl.

Finally, the mage’s screams stopped and he watched as the scorched husk crumpled in a heap on the stone floor. Before he could do more than take a step, something slammed into the middle of his back, shattering his shield like glass. The third mage. The next blow hit his shoulder, turning his arm numb and forcing him to a knee. His sword slipped from limp fingers as a third hit sent him spinning sideways to the ground.

Bands of ice wrapped around his body, pinning his arms to his sides and his legs together. He thrashed, snarling, but the more he struggled the tighter the magic squeezed. More ice slithered around his hands, stopping him from making Signs. Another band wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air.

He kept struggling, even as his vision started going dark around the edges. He heard something snap and wondered if it was his neck because everything seemed to go numb after that. He saw the mage walking towards him, his hand moving in calm circular motions. His last coherent thought was for that of his brothers, his teachers— dead and dying in the one place they were supposed to be safe. 

_I’m sorry I failed you all,_ he thought just as white fire consumed everything around him.

______________________________

His knees hit the road with a crack. Sharp stones jabbed through the leather but he barely felt it. He felt everything at a distance right now. Like he was watching everything from outside of himself. Staring down at his body where it knelt in front of the other Witcher.

Objectively, he knew blood was dripping from his lips. He could see more of it splattered on the ground in front of him, more than likely from the gaping wound that had punched deep into his chest just under his sternum. He could feel his lungs burn on each shuddering breath as they tried to work around the fluids that were almost certainly beginning to fill them.

He could feel his body trying to fix itself, desperately trying to keep him alive and breathing long enough for him to get to his bag. White Raffard’s or swallow. Probably both with size of the wound, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not this time. He wasn’t stupid. He knew there was no way out of this for him. Karadin was talking at him but he wasn’t really paying attention. There was only one thing on his mind and thinking about _him_ hurt more than the literal stab though the heart.

He hadn’t seen the younger Witcher since before the winter, when he’d been asked once again to spend the off season in the mountain keep. And once again, he had said no, hiding the longing behind a teasing smirk. He knew he wasn’t welcome there; no Cat was welcome in the Wolves den no matter what the other man said. There was no special exception, not even for him. Especially not for him.

He knew. He’d taken contracts on humans. He’d killed for coin with little to no guilt for the suffering left in his wake. As long as he got paid. Sure, he had some morals, probably more than most of his brothers, but that hardly made a difference. He knew he wasn’t a good man. He didn’t deserve good things.

But his Wolf did. His Wolf deserved every single good thing in this godforsaken continent. And he was so good, for all that he couldn’t or wouldn’t see it in himself. For all that he brushed off compliments with harsh snark and snapped at a gentle hand with teeth bared. Too scared of getting hurt, of feeling things that he’d been told had been burned out of him during the Trials. And wasn’t that just a fucking lie. If everything else that came out of the Cat School was ruined and rotten, at least the one thing he knew for sure was that the myth of Witcher’s having no emotions was just that — a fucking myth.

Karadin was still talking and he hoped the other Witcher would just hurry up and finish it already. He hoped his death was quick and Karadin didn’t make him suffer for it. It was bad enough he was going to die on his knees. He hoped his wolf wouldn’t mourn too long, wouldn’t do anything stupid like try and avenge him, wouldn’t—

A soft twang and something slammed into his face. He fell back, sprawled ungracefully in the middle of the dusty road. A sharp pain crackled through his skull, front to back. Crossbow bolt, the objective part of his mind supplied. He could feel his body twitching, flopping around as his nerve endings panicked. A hand grabbed his collar and he was dragged off the road and into the woods. His body scrapped across the uneven ground, his leathers and skin snagging on branches and brambles until he was finally dumped onto his side.

He blinked, clearing blood from his eyes. Or eye, singular, he supposed it was now. He could see the blurry shape of the bolt, locate the pain enough to know where he’d been shot. His breath was starting to hitch in his chest. He could feel his mouth gaping wide as his lungs tried to suck in air. His body wouldn’t stop twitching, as if he was having a seizure. Maybe he was.

His vision swirled as he was unceremoniously shoved onto his back by a booted toe. The other Witcher’s face swam in and out of focus. It was hard to focus. Damn, his depth perception was really screwed. “You brought this on yourself, you know,” Karadin was saying as he reached down. There was a sharp tug at the back of his neck as his medallion was ripped away. Karadin held it up, letting it swing like a pendulum just above his nose. The movement made him dizzy. “And now your corpse is going to make me a good bit of coin,” the Cat added, grinning with grim satisfaction.

Coin.

It always came back to coin, especially for Cats. But oh, he had tried. He had tried so hard to be better over the last few seasons. To make his Wolf proud. And now here he was, dying in the woods because he got involved again. He knew he'd die young, if not from the monsters and the mutagens then from the fucking humans he was supposed to protect. And in the end it was another Witcher that did him in. And now, at the end of it, all he could think of was that stupid lullaby his Wolf had sung to him that once when he’d been recovering from a bloodrage. Lambert’s thick fingers had been so gentle as they combed through his sweaty curls, his voice rough and self-conscious.

_For the Witcher, heartless, cold_

_Paid in coin of gold_

_He comes, he’ll go, leave naught behind_

_But heartache and woe_

That was what the Wolves called a lullaby. They sang it to children, for fuck’s sake. And they called Cats messed up. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his ruined chest. That was him, manic till the end, leaving nothing behind but woe. The laugh turned into a cough and blood dribbled up behind his lips. Flat on his back as he was, it had nowhere to go but back down his throat to choke him. For some reason that just made him want to laugh more.

The trees overhead swirled, drawing closer. Reaching for him. Karadin was talking to someone again. A tear rolled down his cheek. Or maybe it was just blood. His last coherent thought was for the owner or a pair of molten gold eyes, a wicked smile, and an even wickeder temper.

 _I’m so sorry, my Wolf_ , was his last thought as a dark figure crouched over him and everything dissolved into swirling white fire.

______________________________

Two weeks.

Two weeks since he’d managed to drag himself from the pile of his brother’s bodies. To hold himself together, figuratively and literally, until he got himself into the keep and poured swallow down his throat. To stitch his own guts back inside his body, barely managing to do so before passing out. Two weeks before he was healed enough that he could stand for longer than a few minutes without his knees buckling. Two weeks before he could deal with the bodies.

He found Varin first; half buried in rubble, face bloated from the sun, sword still clutched in his hand. Even in death, the other sword instructor couldn’t let go of his vocation. Osbert was unrecognizable, the elements and carrion eaters wrecking his face, but he knew the man’s sword. Remy, fresh from his first year on the Path, had been peppered by so many crossbow bolts he was more arrow than man. And so many others. Ripped apart and strewn like discarded broken dolls in the place that had been built to keep them all safe.

He found Rennes by the gates. He’d been sheltered from the worst of the scavengers. He could have almost been sleeping, if not for the vicious blow that had caved his chest in on itself.

Gone. They were gone. They were all gone and now he was alo—

He worked mechanically, separating his brothers from those they’d killed and had killed them in turn. He’d deal with their bodies once he’d found them all. The courtyard took a full day to clear and it was well into the night by the time he ventured back into the keep.

He found the bodies of two mages just outside the great hall, one with her throat slit, the other burned. Piles of ash and metal lay scattered in front of the door. He could only assume they were all that remained of the three Witchers he’d sent to protect the pups. Now they were nothing but dust.

A glint of silver caught his eye. He knelt, one hand to the bandages wrapped around his torso as the movement pulled on his still healing wound. Stiff fingers closed around the grip of the sword, taking note of the weight and balance as he lifted it. He flipped it around, staring at the snarling wolf motif carved into the pommel nut. He’d trained the Witcher whose sword he held, had taken him under his wing when the pup had shown extra promise with a blade. The hours he’d spent one on one with the lad. And now Aubry was dead along with the rest. For two weeks, he’d kept his composure rock steady. He’d felt nothing but numb as he gathered his fallen brothers. But seeing the children…

Vesemir fell to his knees, clutching the sword to his chest, and wept.

______________________________

He rode his horse to foundering and then he ran but it wasn’t enough.

Nothing he ever did was ever enough. He couldn’t live up the standard. Eskel was wicked with Signs and definitely no slouch when it came to his sword work. Geralt was the White Wolf, known across the entire fucking continent. Vesemir wasn’t even on a list, that was how far above them all the Master Witcher was. Even the fucking bard had a leg up on him, always meeting his ill temper and snark with even humour and only ever loosing his temper if his lute was threatened. And even then he was a force to be reckoned with.

He would never live up to any of them. There was no way he ever could. And then one day he’d met a Cat Witcher who was arrogant and infuriating in large and equal measures. And for some fucking reason, believed that the youngest wolf was enough.

He couldn’t shake the lean Witcher even if he’d wanted to, and in the beginning he would have wished for nothing more. They kept meeting by accident, or what he’d call stalking on the other man’s part, but then they started to meet on purpose. Made plans to meet after the winters, took contracts together even if that meant being short on coin that month. Occasionally they’d disappear into the wild for a few days and pretend that they were something that they weren’t, that whatever this was between them was something they could have.

The Cat seemed to take great pleasure in getting under his skin, in riling him up and then reaping the benefits. He met the Wolf’s snarls and bites with hisses and scratches, giving as good as he got and then laughing once it was done. He was wicked, from his sharp-toothed smiles to his wandering hands. Hands, which could easily break the necks of lesser men, and most certainly had, were only ever gentle when they were pressed against skin. He’d let the Cat crawl under his skin and now that he was there, the Wolf didn’t want him to ever leave.

But Destiny is a fickle bitch and he's never been allowed to hold onto good things.

He didn’t find a body. He held onto that for as long as he could. Maybe the other man had gotten himself out alive. But the pool of dried blood in the middle of the road was massive, far too much for even a Witcher to lose and live without immediate intervention. He couldn’t even pretend the blood belonged to someone else. He’d patched his— _the_ Cat up more than once over the years. He’d spent many a night with his nose pressed against the corner of the man’s jaw, just taking comfort in his scent. He knew it intimately; cinnamon and sandalwood wrapped up in sunshine.

He followed the drag marks and found the Witcher’s pack tattered and stripped of all valuables a little ways off the road. Still no body. It didn’t make sense. His body should be here. People left Witchers to die in ditches and took their medallions as proof that they had killed the monster. They didn’t take the body.

It took until he had Karadin at sword point, confessing to taking the contract on one of his own brother, for him to believe it. The man claimed that it had been about money, that the other Witcher had ran off with the coin without finishing the contract, that killing him had been an unfortunate accident.

The Witcher reeked of tin as he spoke. Geralt didn’t move to stop him. Practically gave him his blessing, smelling the lie on the Cat just as easily. And damn, if it didn’t feel good seeing the look of startled surprise in Karadin’s eyes as his head was removed from his shoulders. But it did nothing to make it hurt any less, and he felt a little sick for thinking it might. He found a Cat medallion amongst his possessions, still with blood caked and dried into the grooves of the snarling cat motif.

He parted ways with Geralt then and there, declining the man’s offer to travel together for a bit and slapping away the hand his brother tried to put on his shoulder. It wasn’t until three days later, sitting on the bank of some unnamed river, washing Aiden's blood from the medallion, did he finally let himself grieve for the—for _his_ Cat.

Lambert fell to his knees, clutching the medallion to his chest, and wept.

______________________________

Pain.

Melitele’s tits, his chest hurt. A bone deep ache radiated from sternum to spine, lungs burning like he’d inhaled shards of glass. His face hurt too. The entire right side felt like it was on fire. Pain was a constant for a Witcher. Life was pain and every single moment not spent in pain was a fucking blessing. So the pain itself wasn’t a surprise. It was the fact that he was in pain that had him puzzled. That he was breathing at all.

Aiden could feel thick bandages wrapping around his torso, plastered across the right side of his face. He blinked painfully at the dark swimming shapes that his remaining eye refused to focus on. He didn’t want to move but not to move meant to die so he tried. Panic began to set in when he realized he couldn’t. Something held his wrists down. Pressure wrapped around his upper chest, hips, thighs, ankles. He could only move his head and that sent a new wave of pain through his head when he tried.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

A face swam above him. Dark slicked back hair, neatly trimmed goatee, flinty eyes. He noticed the individual features but putting the face together as a whole proved to be too difficult. He tried to speak but nothing came from his throat but a rasping whine which the stranger immediately shushed. “No, no, don’t try and speak,” he murmured soothingly. “Save your strength now. You’ve been through an ordeal, haven’t you?”

There was something unsettling hiding behind the comforting words that put Aiden’s teeth on edge. He flinched when the man touched him. Cool fingers carefully traced the deep scar that wrapped around the side of his hip and followed it down the side of his thigh. The man’s other hand stroked broadly across his ribs and Aiden realized with a start that he was wearing nothing but his smalls. He swallowed thickly, fists clenching weakly as the man continued his exploration. The touches stayed featherlight, raising goosebumps in their wake. He would have preferred pain to this. Only one person was allowed to touch him like this.

The fingers delicately followed up the swell of his bicep. “Exquisite,” the man whispered as the fingers skimmed along his collarbone. “You Witchers truly are works of art, you know.” Revulsion gurgled low in his gut as the touch moved along his jaw. As soon as the fingers drew near his lips, he struck. His teeth clacked together with an audible snap, biting nothing but air. “Feisty,” the man smiled, completely unfazed.

“Fuck you,” he croaked.

The man’s smirk only widened, a delighted looking spark brightening his dark eyes and making Aiden feel slightly sick. He stepped back out of view only to return a moment later with a small vial clutched in his hand. Aiden instantly recognized the pale blue liquid and how the fuck did this man get his hands on a swallow?

“Oh, it’s the real thing, don’t you worry,” he said with a delighted grin, shaking the vial a little. “I already gave you a couple doses while you were unconscious. I got the potions from a colleague of mine, who got them in turn from his last…well, project, if you will.”

Aiden closed his eye, wishing the man would just stop talking. His voice was slimy, trickling over Aiden’s mind like grease, leaving a bitter taste in its wake. “He’s delightfully innovative,” the man continued. “Truly inspired, even if he tends to get a bit carried away. While I delight in testing the endurance of my projects, the mind is only so malleable. I mean, he broke that poor man in only four days. And the flaying—a little macabre for me, personally. Oh, I am sorry.” The man stopped, not looking apologetic in the slightest. “Forgive me for speaking so callously. He was a Cat, like you. Perhaps you knew him.”

_Broke that poor man in only four days._

_And the flaying._

_He was a Cat, like you._

Kiyan. The man was talking about Kiyan. Aiden felt like his body had been plunged into ice water. This man knew the sick fuck that had tortured his mentor into insanity. So he was probably a mage too. The likelihood that something similar was about to happen to him tore a pained whine from his throat before he could think to stop it.

A hand settled on the side of his head, notably safe from his sharp teeth. “Shhh,” the man soothed. “Nothing like that will happen to you, I promise. Drink now. You’ll feel better.” The uncorked vial was brought to his lips but he pressed them tight. He wasn’t about to give this fucker the satisfaction.

The hand in his hair tightened warningly, sending sparks of dull pain prickling across his scalp. “Drink it,” the man scolded sternly, pressing the vial to his lips. Aiden snarled and thrashed his head forward. He felt a few hairs separate from his scalp as his chin made contact with the vial. It almost knocked it from the man’s hand but he jumped back in time. A little liquid sloshed over the lip of the vial.

“Now that was rude,” the man tisked. His free hand latched around Aiden’s jaw, fingers digging painfully into the joints.“I saved you, put time and energy and coin into keeping you alive. You’d be dead and left to rot on the side of the road without me, so how about showing a little gratitude, hmm? Now _drink_.”

The man’s voice echoed through his head, oozing down his spine like syrup. He couldn’t fathom why he shouldn’t drink it. In fact, he struggled to remember anything beyond wanting to drink it. He felt his mouth fall open only to be pried wider by the man’sgrip on his lower jaw, and the bitter liquid was poured down his throat. He came back to himself with a splutter, coughing weakly.

“The fuck did you do to me?” he rasped.

“Neat trick, isn’t it?” the man said mildly, leaning his hip against the table by Aiden’s hip as he inspected his nails. “I laid a compulsion on you. The mind is so vulnerable to manipulation when unconscious after all. It seemed a pity to waste the opportunity.”

“What the fuck do you want?” Aiden hissed, knowing already he really wasn’t going to like the answer.

The man— the mage, he was sure of that now— flicked dark eyes down to him. There was something so unhinged in the way the mage looked at him. His eyes were alight with morbid fascination, something arrogant and possessive flickering around the edges. “Everything,” he murmured. Aiden curled his lips back in a silent snarl. Fucking mages and their cryptic bullshit.

Even though he saw it coming, he still flinched when the mage settled his hand lightly in the middle of his chest. It was right above were Karadin had ran him through. He pressed down around the still healing wound with his fingertips until Aiden’s breath hitched. “I think I’m going to enjoy breaking you,” he murmured. 

A shiver ran down Aiden’s spine but he bared his teeth, showing canines that had been long ago filed down to subtle points. “I know I’m gonna enjoy ripping your throat out with my teeth,” he snarled.

The mage just smiled, his lips twisting as a sickly glee flickered in his dark eyes. “You’re mine now, Witcher. Better get used to the idea,” he said darkly. He patted his hand lightly against the bandages and then turning on his heels, footsteps echoing on the stone floor. The sharp clang of a metal door slamming shut reverberated, leaving Aiden alone in the dark.

Aiden closed his eyes, letting the pain wash over and through him. He could practically hear Kiyan’s growly voice in his ear: “A Cat out of control is a dead Cat. Find your centre. Control your emotions or they will control you.” But by the gods, it was difficult. He couldn’t ignore the bands that were holding him down on the table. His nails bit into his palms as he tried to stop himself from spinning out.

“Just do what he asks.”

Aiden’s eye snapped open and his head whipped towards the new voice. Fire licked through his skull as his bandaged eye pressed against the table but he barely felt it. “What?”

“Just do what he asks,” the man said again, his voice deep and breathy and sounding so very tired. “It’ll be easier and will save you a lot of pain.”

“I’m not afraid of a little pain,” Aiden drawled, straining to see shapes in the thick shadows. He could just make out the right wall; evenly spaced bars divided his cell from another. Guttering torchlight flickered across the floor but the shadows lay thick and he couldn’t turn his head far enough to see most of the other cell.

“You’ve been here a week. Give it time.”

A week already. He’d been unconscious and strapped to a table for a week. Fuck. “And how long have you been here?” he asked, giving up trying to make anything out of the shadows with his eyes and instead turning to his other senses. The cells were quiet. He could hear footsteps softly in the far distance. Dripping water. His own heartbeat hammering in his chest. And now that he listened, another beating slow and steady. Too slow to be a human.

“What year is it?” the man asked.

Fuck, what a question. When Aiden told him, he could hear the man’s heartbeat skip and his breath stutter a little. “Long fucking time,” the man whispered, voice suspiciously thick. Aiden frowned. He closed his eye and breathed in deep. Underneath the stench of blood and magic, he could smell him. Sweat and a musk that smelled like cedar smoke and fresh mountain air. And underneath that, something else.

“You’re a Witcher,” he exclaimed. He didn’t even bother to make it sound like a question because now that he had the man’s scent in his nose, he was sure. There was something underneath every Witcher’s scent, something acidic that came from the mutagens, like burnt metal. “What school are you from?”

“Wolf,” was the soft reply.

A new kind of pain bloomed deep in Aiden’s chest. “I knew a wolf once,” he murmured softly. He blinked, shoving those feelings back down under his ribs before it could rise far enough to choke me. Now wasn’t the time. “Have there been others here?”

“Yeah, a few.”

There was a finality to the statement that had Aiden steering clear from that subject. “What’s your name?” he asked instead. His query was met with nothing but silence. It stretched and stretched to the point Aiden was sure he wasn’t going to get an answer, but then it finally snapped.

“Aubry.”

“Aubry,” he said stretching out the vowels to feel the shape of the name. “So tell me, Aubry. How does a mighty Wolf Witcher end up under a mage’s thumb?”

“Could ask you the same thing, Cat,” Aubry spat.

Aiden chuckled, happy to have finally gotten something out of the other Witcher besides soft and sad. “A sword to the chest and a crossbow bolt through the eye. And the name’s Aiden,” he drawled. A soft shuffle. A whisper of clothing. A shadow within a shadow. But the man didn’t come any closer or say anything else. That was fine. Aiden would wear him down eventually. He was an expert an antagonizing wolves. He could be patient.

He was almost asleep by the time he got a reply. “My school was attacked,” said Aubry stiffly and with no small amount of guilt. “They killed my brothers, burned the pups. I let the mage get the drop on me. Woke up here. I don’t even know if there are any Wolves who survived,” he added bitterly.

“There are.” Aiden couldn’t help but want to reassure him because fuck, if the Witcher had been grabbed during the massacre, he’d been a prisoner here for a really long fucking time. “I don’t know how many, but I know some survived.”

Another rustle, this one swift and sudden. Something latched onto his forearm. He flinched hard against his bindings, eye snapping open. The other Witcher stood over him, one big hand wrapped around the bars that separated them while the other was latched around Aiden’s arm just above the wrist manacle.

He was tall, very tall. Probably would have a good few inches on him and Aiden was no slouch. He was broad across the chest and shoulders as Wolf Witcher’s were want to be. The fabric of his simple tunic and trousers stretched over muscles that looked like they hadn’t lost any definition over the years of imprisonment.Dark hair fell to his shoulders in thick greasy waves and about a weeks worth of stubble shadowed a strong square jaw. Heavy brows sat above wide golden eyes that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. “You’re sure?” Aubry asked softly. “Y-you’re not just fucking with me. You know who survived?”

Aiden grinned. “I said I knew a wolf, didn’t I? In fact, I know three.” The hand on his arm tightened, the look on the Witcher’s face telling him he was in no mood to be teased. “Geralt, Eskel, and…and Lambert,” he said.

Aubry nodded absentmindedly. “They were on the Path when we were attacked,” he murmured, gaze looking very far away. “They’re still alive?”

“They were before winter,” he said. “I’ve never met Vesemir. He’s pretty much—ow!”

“Vesemir’s alive?” Aubry breathed, his grip ratcheting so tight on Aiden’s arm that the Cat could practically hear his bones creak under the pressure.

“Yeah, he’s mostly retired now. Lives at the keep pretty much year round. Now, do you mind? That’s my favourite sword hand,” he added with a wink. Damnit, he supposed winking wouldn’t really have the same impact anymore, given that he only had one eye now.

The pressure immediately disappeared as the Witcher snatched his hand back as if burned. “Sorry, I—sorry” he breathed.

Aiden was pretty sure now that the shimmer in the Wolf’s eyes wasn’t just a trick of the light. “’S fine,” he murmured, feeling drowsy. The swallow had dulled enough of the pain that his body was finally able to allow itself to be pulled under. He swallowed, blinking painfully against the lull.

“You should, ah, you should get some rest. Swallow will work better if you do,” Aubry murmured, pulling back into the shadows of his cell.

“Wait, pl—” Aiden bit off his words before he could embarrass himself. His body strained against the restraints as panic swirled in his chest. Heat bubbled up as his emotions started to get away from him again. He’d been so good, kept it together so well. Refused to give the mage an inch of vulnerability. But now, left in the dark with nothing but his pain it was really difficult to keep his centre. Fucking Cat mutagens, twisting him up inside until he couldn’t move and couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe and couldn’t…couldn’t—

A hand settled on his arm again, right over where the skin had gone white from lack of blood flow. But this time the Witcher’s grip was gentle as he pushed Aiden's arm back against the table and away from the restraints. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” Aubry murmured. “Breathe. Come on, Cat, in and out. It’s so easy babies do it.”

Deep breaths hurt his chest but the firm touch on his arm was grounding and eventually he managed to get his heart rate back down. “There you go,” the Wolf Witcher rumbled. “Now rest. He won’t do anything while you’re asleep.”

“That doesn’t sound as comforting as I think you think it does,” Aiden replied with a smirk. The corner of Aubry’s mouth twitched slightly upwards so Aiden called it a win. And the Wolf didn’t take his hand away. At least not until everything faded away and exhaustion finally pulled Aiden back down into the void.


	2. Chapter 2

Aiden made it exactly one mile east of Oxenfurt before he stopped. His feet just wouldn’t carry him any further. He couldn’t even remember why he would want to walk this way in the first place. Everything in him wanted to go back to Oxenfurt. It wasn’t until he was back within the city walls that he came back to himself. He stopped dead in the middle of the street, almost getting run over by a carriage. He ignored the spat curses of the driver as he ducked into a side alley.

“Fuck,” Aiden muttered under his breath. Fuck the compulsions and fuck that mage. Loosening his leash just enough to send him on errands but not enough for him to be able to deviate from his assigned path. And wasn’t that just the joke that took the fucking cake. From one Path onto another, neither of his choosing. Even now, he could feel the slimy sensation in the back of his head, nagging his feet forward.

If didn’t take long to find his target— some pompous lordling with too much money who’d managed to piss off one very vengeful mage. It took even less time to slit the man’s throat, collect what the mage wanted, and slip out through the window.

His hands were shaking as he slunk through the city towards the east gate and it wasn’t from the compulsions urging his feet to carry him to the rendezvous point. His hands were shaking because he’d tried so hard not to be this person anymore. He didn’t kill humans anymore. He didn’t. But he had. He was so preoccupied, mind spinning numbly, that he didn’t notice the other man until a broad shouldered body slammed into his blind side, sending him spinning.

“Watch it,” he snarled.

“You watch it,” a familiar voice growled dangerously.

He shouldn’t have turned around. He should have just kept walking. But that voice. So achingly familiar. So painfully angry at everything around him. He shouldn’t have turned around. But he did.

Shorter than him by half a hand. High collared dark leather armour. Two swords slung across his back. Black hair cropped short against a slightly receding hairline, a jagged scar running across the right side of his face, bisecting his right eye. Eyes of molten gold with cat-like pupils that went from narrowed and angry to blown wide with shock.

“A-Aiden?”

He ran.

He could hear Lambert calling him, trying to chase after him through the crowd but Aiden wove and darted between carts and managed to lose him by the time he got through the gate. From there, he vanished into the woods, Lambert’s voice still ringing in his ears. He dropped to the ground, hoping his dark cloak would blend in enough with the brushes around him. The Daphne blossoms would hopefully be enough to mask his scent.

He gritted his teeth against the compulsions and lay frozen, barely breathing, as he watched the other Witcher skid through the gate. Lambert’s head whipped back and forth, pausing only briefly before he sprinted off down the road away from where Aiden was crouched. The Cat let out a slow breath.

“Run, run, little wolf. As fast as you can,” he whispered sadly to himself as he let the compulsions pull him up and further into the woods. “Don’t let him ruin you too.”

The mage—gods, years now spent at the bastard’s whims and Aiden still didn’t even know his name—was waiting for him exactly where he’d said. He sat on a fallen log, ankles crossed as he toyed with the red gemstone that always hung around his neck. He was dressed almost subtly for once, in dark greens and blacks with subtle gold trim.

He smiled widely when Aiden walked up. “Ah, finally. A little late, aren’t you? Any problems?” he asked, his voice honey sweet. Aiden didn’t trust his voice against the compulsions so he just shook his head. He didn’t consider Lambert himself a problem so it wasn’t technically a lie.

The mage frowned slightly, getting to his feet. He stalked across the clearing to stand toe to toe with Aiden, looking slightly up at him. He was so close. Aiden’s hands itched to take the dagger from his belt and slam it up under the mage’s chin. He knew exactly what that would sound like, what it would feel like. How the light would drain from the man’s eyes, choking on his own lifeblood.

The mage smirked as if he could read his mind. He placed his hand on Aiden’s hip, just to prove that he could touch as he pleased, before sliding his hand around to the small of Aiden’s back. “Not today, pet,” he murmured, pulling the little dagger free from its sheath and tucking it into his cloak. “Now, did you bring me what I asked for?”

Aiden moved stiffly, pulling the small pouch free from his belt. It was slightly damp against his fingers as he handed it over. The mage clapped his hands like a child being given candy and plucked it from his hands. “Excellent,” he purred as he opened it and dumped out the contents.

A single blue irised eyeball, still connected to its optical nerve, rolled wetly into his palm. “Such a good boy,” the mage murmured. Aiden was proud he managed not to flinch or snarl at the the endearment. The pouch disappeared into the mage’s waistcoat. “When we get home I’ll give you a treat. And who knows,” he added, reaching a hand to trace the corner of the patch that covered Aiden’s right eye and cheek. “Maybe this one will take.”

Aiden gritted his teeth and let the mage’s fingers dance across his face. He did this often, getting lost in his own head as he examined his projects. Aiden’s ruined eye had been a particular favourite over the years. He’d had to endure all sorts of procedures the bastard cooked up, each one failing as spectacularly as the last as the mutagens in his body wrecked havoc on the all too human tissues. He was beginning to wonder if the mage just did it to see him writhe.

“Now, one last question,” the mage said, tracing his fingers lightly along the edge of Aiden’s jawbone. He could probably feel the Witcher’s teeth creaking as he held them clenched tightly, jaw muscle twitching. “When I asked if there were any problems, you said no. You lied to me, or at least danced your way around the truth. So let’s try that again.” Aubry felt fingers close tightly around his chin, dragging it down to meet the mage’s furious gaze. “What happened in Oxenfurt that didn’t go according to plan?”

‘Nothing’ was on his tongue, but what came out instead was, “I saw someone I knew.”

“And did they see you?”

“I don’t—yes.”

The mage tisked his tongue scoldingly. “You were careless.”

“It won’t happen again,” he promised. Gods, don’t ask, he begged silently. Please don’t ask. Please, please don’t ask who it was because I’ll be forced to tell you.

“No. No, it won’t,” the man growled. Then he sighed and relaxed, his fingers falling away. “It’s my own fault. I’ll send Aubry the next time I need an errand done. Now come along, pet. Let’s get you home.” He turned his back, proving just how much faith he had in his compulsions, and started building a portal.

Aiden relaxed his jaw, feeling the joints click with relief. He hadn’t asked. The mage hadn’t asked. He wouldn’t know. His wolf was safe, at least from him.

He watched as the white fire spiralled out from the mage’s fingers, but his mind was racing a mile a minute. He’d walked a mile. The first time the mage had let him off his leash, he’d barely been able to get twenty feet from the city. He had to be careful. He wasn’t sure if the mage could tell when he did. He didn’t want to risk too much too fast. But today he’d walked a mile. Maybe tomorrow he’d tear out the mage’s throat with his teeth.

______________________________

He had only caught a glimpse, hidden within a deep hood and a half mask that covered his right eye and cheek. A proud nose strangely unbroken even after so many years on the Path. A sliver of honey brown curls. And it was his voice, angry and rough but still his voice.

“A-Aiden?”

The man fled and Lambert chased but fuck was the man slippery. Lambert lost him just before they reached the east gates. He skidded to a halt, frantically searching for any sign of which way the man fled. The left and forward paths raced straight away from the gates. There was no sight of the man on either of those so he ran to the right, along the road that curved sharply past a thick crop of trees.

He wasn’t sure how far he ran but it seemed like one minute there was nothing in front of him but empty road and then he was nearly running smack into Roach. The mare danced back with a startled snort but Geralt held her steady. His sharp eyes latched onto what Lambert could only guess was his distressed looking state. “What’s chasing you?” he asked sternly, hand straying up towards his sword hilt.

“Aiden,” Lambert breathed.

Geralt’s shoulders deflated a little, his breath hissing out through his teeth. “What’s an Aiden?” Jaskier asked in puzzlement, popping out from behind Geralt’s elbow.

“I saw him,” he exclaimed. “In Oxenfurt. I know it was him. I saw his face. He even had an eyepatch. ‘Member, Karadin said that—that—that _bitch_ shot him through the eye with a fuckin’ crossbow!”

“Lambert—” Geralt tried, but the younger Witcher wasn’t listening.

“He can’t have gone far, I just need to…fuck, I—I lost him at the gate but this is the only way he could have come.” He was rambling, he knew he was but he didn’t know how to stop it. The meaningless words just kept tumbling past his lips without permission. Jaskier was looking more and more alarmed with each passing moment but Geralt just looked….well, if Lambert cared, he might have said that the white haired Witcher just looked sad.

“Little wolf,” he tried again, taking a step closer but Lambert just kept paced with him and took a step back.

“No, Geralt. I know what I fuckin’ saw. I know what I fuckin’ saw and it was fuckin’ him!”

“Aiden’s dead, Lambert,” Geralt growled and Lambert punched him in the face.

His fist cracked across the man’s jaw, whipping the Wolf's head sideways. He even stumbled a little, grunting at the force of it. Jaskier was shouting in alarm, his arms flailing frantically, and Lambert did what he did best when things got too difficult and emotional and overwhelming.

Strangely enough, it wasn’t Geralt who found him a few hours and many miles later, sitting on the side of a river as he sharpened his sword down to nothing. The bard sat down next to him on the log what most would consider a comfortable distance away. Still too close for Lambert’s taste. And he didn’t speak. He just sat there, staring out across the river. The fucking bard never shut up and now here he was just…just sitting there. What the fuck was Lambert supposed to do with that?

He wasn’t paying attention to what his hands were doing and on his next stroke, the stone slipped from the blade. The sharp edge sliced into the thick muscle at the bae of his palm, cutting almost to the bone. He snarled, tossing both sword and whetstone into the dirt as he ignored the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Vesemir threatening to strap him for treating his weapon so poorly.

Rage bubbled close under the surface as he watched the blood gush and drip, liquid fire making his skin tight and his heart pound against his ribs. He scrambled to his feet with a snarl, fully planning on stalking into the woods until he put enough distance between himself and fucking anything else that had a heartbeat. And then finally the bard opened his fucking mouth.

“Tell me about him.”

“The fuck did you just say?” he snarled, rounding on the bard as the rage burned up under his ribs. To his credit, the man didn’t even flinch. He met Lambert’s burning glare levelly.

“Tell me about Aiden,” he said, voice soft and eyes calm.

“Don’t say his name. You don’t fuckin’ say his name!”

“Alright,” Jaskier replied, still sounding so infuriatingly calm.

Something snapped inside him. His fist lashed out towards the closest target. He had enough clarity not to make it the bard. Geralt would be mad if he broke the bard. The bark of the tree scraped his knuckles bloody and he felt something in his hand crack. The sharp ache in his hand did help clear his head a little but it did nothing to calm the rolling of his stomach or the headache that was starting to make the base of his skull ache.

He could practically see Aiden now, all sharp teeth and bright eyes as he eased Lambert’s hand from the bark the last time he’d lost control and punched a tree. His hands had been firm as he’d rubbed salve into the busted knuckles, but his voice had been soft as he spouted flowery nonsense in that low murmuring tone he seemed to only use around the youngest Wolf.

“He liked poetry,” Lambert heard himself saying. He was still facing the tree so he couldn’t see Jaskier’s reaction but he could hear the way the bard’s heartbeat stuttered a little. “Had a shit ton fuckin’ memorized, ‘specially the Elvish shit. There was one in particular…the one ‘bout the stars ‘n towers ‘n the day being done or some shit, I don’t remember how it goes.”

“In western lands beneath the sun, the flowers may rise in spring.” Lambert ground his fist against the rough bark, smearing blood against the wood and feeling the cracks in his bones grinding. Jaskier’s voice was low and gentle but the words scrapped against his ears like sand. “The trees may bud, the waters run, the merry finches sing.”

“Shut up,” Lambert whispered, so quietly that not even Geralt would have heard him if he’d been sitting in the bard’s place. So of course Jaskier didn’t shut up.

“Or there maybe ’tis cloudless night and swaying beeches bear, the Elven-stars as jewe—”

“Shut up, shut the fuck up!” he bellowed, rounding on the bard. He closed the distance between them and hauled Jaskier bodily from the ground by the front of his jacket to roar in his face.“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about so just shut the fuck up about it!”

Jaskier’s hands wrapped around his wrists in a surprisingly firm grip. He always underestimated how physically strong the bard could be when he wanted to. “So tell me,” he insisted, squeezing at the Witcher’s wrists beseechingly. “Help me to understand. Let me share the weight.” Lambert let go of Jaskier as if the bard had burned him. He stumbled back a few steps, breath heavy as he stalked off into the woods. If he stayed, he knew he was going to break something more than his hand, like the bard’s nose.

He found his way back to the river far enough upstream that even Geralt couldn’t hear him. He sat on the banks for a long time, water soaking his boots as he clutched at the Cat medallion around his neck like a lifeline. He traced his fingers over the sharp grooves, familiar after so many years. He was surprised the carving hadn't worn away by now. He closed his eyes, forcing a slow breath into his aching lungs. 

If only he'd pushed harder that season. Or better yet, if only he'd stayed with Aiden instead of going to Kaer Morhen for the winter. If only he'd been there. If only, then that really could have been Aiden in Oxenfurt, waiting for Lambert by the noticeboard with a cocky smirk on his lips. 

It was twilight by the time he went back down the river, finding the bard and Geralt had made camp. His sword lay next to the packs he’d foolishly left behind, neatly polished and snug in its sheath. He tried to snatch up his gear and leave, but Geralt grabbed his uninjured wrist and dragged him down beside the fire. Begrudgingly, he let Jaskier fuss and coax him to eat a bowl of soup. He let Geralt brood and shove swallow down his throat when he saw the younger Witcher’s bruised and bloodied hand.

He woke up not remembering having fallen asleep, discovering someone had taken off his boots and gambeson and bundled him under blankets. While he didn’t feel better, he certainly didn’t feel any worse. Jaskier was a bit flighty until he finally growled at the bard to knock it off. For some reason, that made the man settle, a relieved smile on his face. Like he could tell the difference between Lambert’s snarls— which ones were truly angry and which ones were just his default setting.

He even let Geralt pull him into a hug when they split up that afternoon, let the taller Wolf headbutt their foreheads together. It was only late summer and plenty of Path left for both of them to walk before winter. It was brief, but there was something desperate in it, and in the way Geralt’s eyes searched after, one hand still clapped to Lambert’s shoulder. “Till winter,” he said gruffly. Lambert nodded with a grunt. That was enough emotions for this year.

He drew the line at letting Jaskier hug him, stopping him with a flat palm against his chest. The bard pouted a little, but still wished him well on his Path and there was nothing in his scent but sincerity. “Oh, I almost forgot,” the bard said, digging out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and pressing it into Lambert’s hand. “For whenever you’re ready,” he murmured, a slight blush staining his cheeks. A quick squeeze of Lambert’s hand and the bard went sprinting off after Geralt.

It took him the entire day before he could summon enough courage to even open that piece of paper. He got as far as the third neatly penned word before he was stuffing it back into his pocket. It took all he had not to crumple it into a ball and fling it into the woods.

It took another week before he summoned the courage to open it again, and he read it twice before tucking it into the little pocket on the inside of his gambeson. Just above his heart. No one ever had to know he was being so fucking sentimental about a stupid poem.

______________________________

Aubry scrubbed a hand across his eyes, rolling his shoulders to help ease some of the tension there. At least the screaming had stopped. That was always the worse part. Or maybe this was, the after where the Cat just lay there gasping for air like a fish out of water.

He sat crosslegged on the floor, the cold of the stone long since seeped through the thin cotton of his pants. Aiden was on the other side of the bars, curled up on his side in the fetal position just out of reach. His whole body was trembling, fingers twitching as a viscous black liquid drooled from his ruined eye socket. Once again, the mutagens had objected to the eye the mage tried to fuse into the Witcher’s skull. And like always, the rejection process was a brutal process.

“You still alive over there, Cat?” he called out once the worst of the spasms had passed. All he got was a throaty groan as Aiden curled his knees into closer into his chest. “Hey, you don’t get to die and leave me in this shit hole by myself.” A single golden eye, watery and glazed with pain, rolled up to look at him scathingly.

“Fuck you,” Aiden rasped.

“You really think you’re up for that right now?” Aubry teased, raising a cynical eyebrow.

The Cat’s eye narrowed. “He never does anything to you,” he spat hatefully. “How many fucking decades and barely a dent. What makes you so fucking special?”

Truth was, the mage had just been distracted by his shiny new toy for longer than usual. It had happened with the Bear before Aiden and the two Vipers before that. But eventually, he always came back to his Wolf. But Aubry also knew that Aiden’s words were always sharpened to cut after suffering through the mage’s latest attentions, so he didn’t rise to the bait. Animals lashed out when in pain. Humans and Witchers were no different in that regard.

“Must be the cheekbones,” he said with a one shoulder shrug. “All the whores used to give me compliments.”

The other Witcher glared at him but the fight had already slumped out of his shoulders. “Definitely the cheekbones,” he grumbled, raising a hand to wipe at the soupy remains of the eye with his sleeve. “Gods, why does this have to be so fucking gross?”

With a hissed breath, Aiden pushed himself up until he could slouch against the bars. His sticky fingers hooked limply against the lowest crossbar as his eye turned up to meet Aubry’s. “Come on, don’t make me beg,” the Cat drawled. His lips twisted into a sharp grin but the humour didn’t reach his gaze.

Aubry heaved a sigh but shifted closer to the bars without complaint. He’d learned early on that the Cat needed to be touched after whatever ordeal the mage put him through. The first time the mage had tested him, carving into his back to see how long it would take a Cat to heal in comparison to a Wolf, Aiden had nearly shaken himself apart after. He’d held onto himself, fingers digging into his skin, eyes wild and barely human.

Fucking Cat School thinking they could improve on the formula. All it did was fuck up their Witcher’s emotional stability to the point that nearly anything could push them into a bloodrage and madness. More of them had to be put down than fell under a monster’s claws. Aiden was very good at controlling himself, but everyone has their breaking point. Even Witchers. And if running his fingers through the man’s hair could help to keep the Cat grounded, Aubry wasn’t going to be the one to deny something so easily given. He’d done it often enough over the years. 

Most of his surviving year mates had teased him for being soft. The masters had dealt out punishments whenever they caught him sneaking sweets to the students before their Trials. But it never stopped him doing it, or from slipping into the dorms of a pup who was recovering from the Grasses or Dreams. A cool cloth to sooth fevered skin, a soft voice to help chase the nightmares away. A little kindness amongst so much pain didn’t make him fucking soft.

And if he was being completely honest, he probably needed the touch just as much as the Cat. 

He threaded his arms through the bars, wrapping one around the man’s lean torso and splaying his other hand flat against the Cat’s chest. Aiden practically melted through the bars to get as close as he could. Aubry could feel him still trembling, could feel his heart racing underneath his palm. Shaky fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, gripping tight as they sat quietly together.

He didn’t even know he was humming until he felt Aiden’s chest vibrate under his hand with a soft chuckle. “How you Wolves consider that a lullaby is beyond me,” he drawled. “It’s morbid as fuck.”

Aubry chewed on his lower lip, considering his reply. The Cat wasn’t wrong. It was a dark song, and messed up that it was sung to children as a comfort. But Witchers lose the right to their childhoods as soon as they stepped through the gates of Kaer Morhen. And as sad and as fucked up as that was, it was something they had all been forced to accept at one point. The song prepared them for their new reality. It wasn’t something he could explain. It was something all Wolves just knew.

“Maybe,” he murmured into Aiden’s sweat-soaked curls. “But it’s ours.” The Cat hummed like he understood and maybe he did. “How do you know it?” he asked curiously.

Aiden went very still under his arms. “Told you I knew a wolf once,” he murmured. Aubry could tell there was a story there but if Aiden didn’t want to share it, he wasn’t going to push it. The silence stretched before Aubry felt a featherlight touch brush at the back of his hand. “Sing it for me?” the Cat asked tentatively.

“‘M not much of a singer,” he protested but it was a weak objection. He kept his voice soft, barely above a whisper so as to not attract anymore unwanted attention. He wasn’t sure if the mage would care, but he was a fickle creature. Some things angered him to violence and others he tolerated with something that could almost be called fondness.

_“Birds are silent for the night_

_Cows turned in as daylight dies_

_But one soul lies anxious wide awake_

_Fearing all manner of ghouls, hags, and wraiths_

_My dear dolly Polly, shut your eyes_

_Lie still, lie silent, utter no cries.”_

A second voice, far more polished and in tune added to his own. Aiden’s voice was honey smooth if a bit raspy from the abuse it had just been through, and harmonized surprisingly well with his rough, unpolished rumble.

_“As the Witcher, brave and bold_

_Paid in coin of gold_

_He’ll chop and slice you_

_Cut and dice you_

_Eat you up whole_

_Eat you whole.”_

______________________________

Eskel winced as he reached too far overhead, feeling the still healing wounds across his ribs pull. He’d gone back to Kaer Morhen early this season. The air was cold in the mornings, with frost dusting the ground, but the weather hadn’t begun to turn yet. He usually didn’t head up the mountain until the first snows, right before the pass closed, but had been a lean season. Add to that a Bruxa contract that left him bleeding on the side of the road with half the coin he’d been promised and here he was. He had already been in Kaedwen so he’d decided to call it early and come home.

He was currently in the armoury, working through their stash, setting aside weapons that needed repair or just a good polishing. Vesemir kept everything in good states but there was always things to be done. And he wasn’t one to stay idle, even in the off season. Vesemir was always a hard task master during the first few weeks as they settled in for the long winter months, and Eskel knew his injury was the only thing stopping Vesemir from sending him out to repair walls or insulate the stables.

He gritted his teeth against the discomfort as he retrieved what he had been reaching for. This sword always caught the eye of whoever stepped foot in the armoury. It hung on the wall opposite the door, separate enough from the other racks to stand out. He’d seen it before but sorting the armoury had always been Lambert’s winter chore and he’d never gotten to have a closer look.

All the weapons in the armoury were good quality, but there was nothing special. They were backup weapons used for training or gathering dust. But not this sword. This was a work of art. The silver blade shone in the firelight, telling the tale of a life well cared for. There was not a stitch out of place in the neat black-wrapped handle and when Eskel flipped it point down, he saw the snarling wolfs head carved into the base of the pommel.He swung it easily around himself, checking the weight and balance. A little lighter than his usual tastes but still beautifully crafted. He spun on the balls of his feet, swinging the sword in a careful arch, and froze.

Vesemir was leaning in the doorway, watching him with a carefully neutral expression. “It’s too light for you,” he said, his growling voice surprisingly soft. Eskel grunted in agreement, rolling his wrist to sent the blade in a lazy circle. The elder Witcher pushed off the doorframe, silently holding out a hand.

Eskel flushed as he passed the blade over, unable to help the feeling that he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Vesemir’s fingers were strangely gentle as they wrapped around the hilt and took the sword from him. He stood there, blade resting on his forearm, silent as stone as he gazed down at it.

Eskel swallowed, squashing the urge to fidget. “Whose sword was it?” he asked. He knew this had to have belonged to a Witcher. It was too well made to just be a training castoff. And it wasn’t much of a leap to assume that said Witcher no longer walked the Path.

Vesemir didn’t answer and Eskel wasn’t pretty sure he wasn’t going to. Vesemir was a cryptic old fossil at the best of times but this was something new. His scent was different, sadder even than usual. He was quiet as he moved to carefully replace the sword in its place of honour. He then left the armoury without a word.

He didn’t see Vesemir until late that evening. Eskel was curled up by the fire in the library, a bestiary out of Kovir across his knees. It read more like a mythology book than a guide, but it was still well written and entertaining, if horrifyingly inaccurate. He barely heard the other Witcher enter until a glass of Est Est appeared beside him. He picked it up with a raised eyebrow. The wine was stupidly expensive and not to either of the Witcher’s usual taste. He took a careful sip, watching over the rim of his glass as the other man took a seat on the other side of the fire.

The flickering flames threw the sword master’s face into a harsh light, making the lines in his face all the more dramatic. He leaned forward, elbows to knees. His hands held his glass with loose fingers, his eyes practically glowing in the firelight. It was a long silence before Vesemir spoke, and when he did, it was soft and nostalgic. “The sword belonged to Aubry.”

Eskel flinched.

He remembered Aubry. The Witcher had been about five years older than him, already on the Path by the time Eskel had gone through his second Trial. He’d stuck out amongst so many stoic Wolves, always quick to laugh or smile. His trials didn’t rob him of that, unlike so many others. And his skill with a blade was a marvel. He had moved with such surprising grace for how big he was, honing his body to rely on speed and agility as opposed to brute strength. More Cat than Wolf, the masters would grumble. When he was little, Eskel used to sneak down to the training yard and watched Vesemir drill the other Wolf. He’d even modelled his own fighting style after watching the two of them fight.

And the man had been kind.

Eskel didn’t remember much of his Trials, not after so many years. It was a dull mishmash of pain and whenever he tried to remember details, he always ended up with nightmares. But he did remember lying in bed after his Trial of Dreams, soaked through with sweat from the fever and eyes burning underneath the bandages. He remembered the cool touches that chased away the heat that crawled under his skin, and a rumbling voice murmuring lullabies in his ear.

Vesemir nodded absentmindedly when he told him that. “He always liked taking care of the pups. If he was here for the Trials, he would sneak them honey candy before they were taken. The other masters caught him more than once but no punishment ever seemed to stick.”

“How’d he die?” Eskel found himself asking. He’d never asked that before. None of them had, about any of the Wolves slaughtered within these walls. They were just dead. It hadn’t seemed important before. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Mages burnt him to cinders,” Vesemir said flatly. “Nothing left but his sword. Not even his medallion survived.”

“Fuck,” Eskel breathed.

“I sent him to protect the pups,” the man continued, still staring into the fire, his wine forgotten in his hands. “I sent him right into that firestorm,” he added bitterly.

Eskel shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to seeing the older Witcher like this. Vesemir was always a pillar of stoic strength, all stern words and even temper. He had ruled the training ground with an iron fist and now he ruled the remaining Wolves every winter with the same. It was unsettling to see him like this, eyes unfocused as he got lost in the past, his scent turned bitter with grief and guilt. “’S not your fault,” Eskel muttered, his usual rasping ruin of a voice sounding even rougher than usual.

A spark of amusement pulled Vesemir’s gaze back to the present. “I made peace with my decisions long ago, pup, but I appreciate your words nonetheless,” he rumbled. Eskel felt his cheeks heating up and he ducked to hide his blush in his wine. Vesemir seemed to shake himself, both mentally and physically, as he leaned back in his chair. “Enough ghosts for tonight. Go fetch your Gwent deck and let’s see if you’ve improved any since last season.”

Eskel leapt to obey, more than happy for anything to distract from the pain of their past. It didn’t stop him grumbling that his card skills were perfectly adequate. Vesemir gave him a knowing look and then proceeded to whip his ass all the way to Nilfgaard and back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the overwhelmingly positive reaction to the first chapter! Glad you are all enjoying so far! (And if you thought these last two chapters were rough, it's gonna get a whole lot worse before it gets better. But I promise it will get better!)
> 
> FYI I'm going to to my best to update every Monday and Thursday.
> 
> The poem Jaskier recites is called “In Western lands beneath the Sun” and is from LOTR.


	3. Chapter 3

Aubry’s voice rumbled soothingly behind his ear as Aiden sat back to back with the other Witcher. The bars dug into his shoulders, the back of his head resting against the crossbar. He was listening to the other man read a book about the history of Redania. While not particularly riveting, it was nice to just let the white noise of the rumbling voice wash over him.

The Wolf Witcher was a bit of a conundrum to him. He was more emotional than he would have expected, far less constipated than his fellow Wolves. As least the ones that Aiden had met. He never hesitated to offer Aiden comfort in the wake of the mage’s procedures. It had taken Aiden months before Lambert would accept a simple hand on his arm without immediately shrugging it off. And even after so many years, literally decades, of imprisonment, the Wolf Witcher was still somehow kind.

“Have you ever tried to escape?” he said, interrupting Aubry’s recitation of something to do with landholdings and provisions of wealth. “You’ve been here long enough, you must have tried.”

He felt the other Witcher take a slow breath behind him. “I did, in the beginning. Nearly managed it a couple times, before he’d finessed his spells. They seem flexible but you can only push them so far before he notices. And his reflexes with them are fucking quick.”

“Yeah, I’d noticed that. Fuck,” Aiden grumbled.

He heard the mage’s footsteps long before he saw him, slapping hurriedly against the stone. The door to his cell burst open wide. The man didn’t even bother to close it behind him. He was practically vibrating with excitement. Aiden raised his eyebrows, not bothering to get to his feet. “Ah, good morning, sweet Cat. I have a little something for you,” the mage crowed. He pulled a small vial of dark red liquid from his pocket and wiggled it enticingly. “Come on. Up, up!”

Aiden could feel Aubry ratchet tense against his back and forced himself not to panic yet. At least the mage had finally gotten bored with fucking around his sight and had left him alone, finally allowing him to properly learn to compensate for the loss of depth perception.

As he got to his knees, a hand settled into his hair. A snarl ripped free from low in his throat but the spells in his head had snapped shut the second he’d been touched. The mage just laughed, giving him a little shake as one might a misbehaving puppy. Or perhaps kitten was more appropriate. “Save it for later, my feral Witcher,” the mage murmured. “Now be good and _open up_.”

Aiden felt his head being pulled back as his mouth fell open without his permission. The liquid was foul, metallic tasting like old blood, and thick as it burned his throat the whole way down. He’d barely swallowed it before the grip on his hair disappeared and the mage practically fled from the cell. The door clanged shut and the mage dropped down onto a plush looking chair set in the hallway. His eyes locked onto Aiden with rapt attention.

Well, that probably wasn’t a good sign.

He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to pick apart what the fuck he’d just been forced to drink. He thought he could taste beggartick blossoms and he would be thoroughly pissed off if this was some sort of home-brew fisstech. There was a reason he never touched the damn stuff.Aubry was on his knees at the bars, watching him with guarded concern, and he shrugged. Nothing seemed to be happening. The minutes ticked by and still nothing.

Aiden paced over to the door and looped his arms over the crossbar, staring down at the mage. “Don’t think your foray into distilling worked. I wouldn’t quit your day job,” he drawled. His felt his fingers drumming against the metal and the mage’s gaze locked onto the movement. A small smile tugged at the man’s thin lips.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he murmured.

Aiden narrowed his eye. There was something the mage wasn’t saying. He shoved off the door with a growl, pacing the length of his cell and back. Once he started moving, he couldn’t seem to stop. Something was making his skin itch, and he started raking his nails up and down his arms to try and make it stop. But it didn’t. If anything, it was getting worse. Anxiety started to build, making his heart pound against his ribs. He felt overheated, like he was coming down with a fever.

“What the fuck is this?” he breathed, racking a hand through his hair and pulling at it harshly. A soft chuckle from behind him had his whirling around. He stormed back towards the door and slamming into it. “What the fuck did you do to me?!” he shouted. But the man just smiled.

A burning heat kindled from low in his belly, rolling through his body like a firestorm, swirling into anger. He spat more obscenities but nothing he said had the mage reacting in any way and that just made the rage spike hotter.

An inhuman snarling sound rippled through the cell. In the back of his head, he realized it was coming from his own throat. He could feel the vibrations there but he was barely aware of it. His foot lashed out, connecting hard with the little desk he had in his cell. Wood screeched against stone as the table skidded across the cell. The chair followed closely after, shattering to splinters against the far wall.He could hear Aubry’s voice calling to him but he couldn’t focus on it. He couldn’t focus on anything beyond the sensations that were bubbling hot inside his chest. It consumed everything, like a red mist. He was barely aware of his surroundings. All he knew was that he wanted to make someone, anyone, hurt. And hurt bad.

Movement danced in his periphery and he lashed out before he knew what he was doing. He felt soft skin and cotton underneath his fingers and dug in. There was a harsh crack and hollow grunt of pain. Something connected hard with the bridge of his nose but he barely felt it. He barely felt anything else. Nothing else existed. He didn’t exist anymore.

All that existed was the rage.

______________________________

Aubry had watched with growing horror as Aiden got more and more agitated, scratching at his own skin until he drew blood. He had a sickening feeling that he knew exactly what that potion was doing. When he finally locked eyes with Aiden, he knew he was right. Aiden wasn’t there anymore. His lips were twisted back in a vicious snarl, showing his sharp canines. His eye was burning with hate, pupil blown wide as the bloodrage took control.

He was so fast. Aubry barely had time to react before he was yanked forward and slammed into the bars, Aiden hissing and spitting on the other side. His arm was yanked up and over the crossbar, cranked down and down until he felt his shoulder separate with a harsh crack. His skin gave way underneath the Witcher’s nails, blood trickling down his arm. He grunted against the pain and punched a closed fist into the Cat’s face.

The grip on his arm loosened and he threw himself backwards. His ass hit stone as he scrambled away from Aiden’s clawing grip. He lay there panting, cradling his arm against his chest as he watched the other Witcher frenzy himself into exhaustion. By the time it was finally over, the cell was completely destroyed. Aiden was frothing at the mouth and drenched in sweat. Blood ran down his arms in rivulets and was caked under his nails. Most of it his own, some of it Aubry’s.

It was as if the Cat's body just decided to give up all at once. Suddenly, his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground, head bouncing off the stone. Aubry was by the bars in a second, calling out to him in a panic. Aiden's eye was glazed and staring where he lay sprawled on his back. The only indication that he was even still alive was the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

He was so focused on the other Witcher, he completely forgot to keep track of the mage. He didn’t even hear his cell door open until there was a cold hand pressing down against the back of his neck. He flinched, but felt the spells grab hold of his mind before he could even formulate a proper reaction. “ _Behave and be still_ ,” the mage scolded before taking his shoulder in hand. Something icy flooded across his skin before the joint lurched back into place with a sickly pop.

“ _Come with me,_ ” the mage urged, backing up his order with a tug on his spells. Aubry followed placidly as the man led him out of his cell. His confusion was just compounded upon when the mage unlocked the Cat’s cell and held the door open. He reached into his pocket and shoved two slender vials into Aubry’s stiff fingers. “Make sure he doesn’t die.”

The door slammed behind him but Aubry was already on his knees next to the other Witcher. He got no response when he called the Cat’s name, and barely got an eye flutter when he rubbed his knuckles harshly against the man’s sternum, right over the thick scar from where he’d been run through so many years prior. 

He glanced down at the vials in his hand, one yellowy-green and the other pale blue. How the man kept getting his hands on Witcher potions was something he tried not to dwell on. He set the swallow aside and uncorked the white honey. He pried the Cat’s jaw open, tilted his head back to feed him the potion. He had to physically stroke the man’s throat in order to get him to swallow.He wiped the foam from the man’s lips and laid him carefully on the cot in the corner. He downed a small mouthful of swallow himself, set the rest aside for once Aiden was more coherent, then settled in for a long night.

He was startled from his meditation sometime in the middle of the night by a strange noise. He wasn’t sure what it was at first, blinking owlishly around the cell. The bed next to him was empty. At first glance it seemed the entire cell was empty as well, but that strange keening noise hadn’t stop. It seemed to be coming from the farthest corner, where the shadows looked extra lumpy. He crossed the cell carefully and knelt down just out of arms reach. The other Witcher was sitting with his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins and face buried against his knees. He was shaking to the point of convulsions. 

“Aiden?” he whispered.

The man flinched hard against the bars. His arms tightened around his arms and the keening which had petered off on his approach started up again. Aubry leaned forward, ghosting his hands up the other Witcher’s arms. “No, no, no, no,” Aiden moaned, shaking his head back and forth as he tugged weakly against Aiden’s grip on his shoulders. “No, don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me. I don’t deserve it.”

“Not your fault, Cat,” he rumbled.

The Witcher's head whipped side to side.“It is, it is. I lost control,” he sobbed.

“No, you didn’t,” Aubry said sternly. “You didn’t lose shit. He took it,” he growled, giving the Cat a little shake to emphasize his point.

Aiden’s head raised just enough to reveal from the bridge of his nose up. Heavy shadows fell across the empty socket on his right side and gave him a sickly skeletal look. His left eye was shot through with broken blood vessels. The pupil were so huge, Aubry would have sworn the Cat had drank wormwood spirit. That eye darted around, taking in the blood still streaked along Aubry’s arms, the scabs already formed from the sip of swallow he’d taken earlier. A choked whine dribbled past his lips and he shrunk further in on himself.

“Alright. It’s alright,” soothed Aubry, gathering the slender man into his arms. They weren’t going to get anywhere talking tonight. It was a sign of how out of it Aiden was because he didn’t fight the manhandling as Aubry carried him to the bed. He coaxed the man to drink the swallow, stripped him of his ruined tunic, and bundled him under the blankets. Then he sat down beside him, ready to settle in for a long night of meditation, when a hesitant touch brushed against his wrist. Aiden wouldn’t meet his eyes, his sharp teeth worrying at his lower lip until his made it bleed.

Wordlessly, Aubry crawled over and nudged at Aiden until he could wrap his arms around the slender man. Hands grabbed desperately at his shirt, and Aiden shoved his face against the side of Aubry’s neck. The bigger man soothed his hand up and down the man’s bare spine, ignoring the wetness that dripped onto his neck from Aiden’s face.

The Cat never made a sound.

The morning saw the mage sweeping into the cell before either Witcher was fully awake. He stroked and cooed over Aiden excitedly, asking a million questions that the Witcher answered in a flat tone. Aubry was put back in his cell. They were given baths and new clothes and enough food for a small army. Even wine. A book of Elvish poetry appeared on the new desk in Aiden’s cell, but the Witcher didn’t even spare it a glance. Nor did he once meet Aubry’s eyes, and the Wolf let the Cat have his avoidance. He worked through stretches and strengthening exercises for his shoulder. It ached a little but he had full range of movement.

It was near evening by the time he heard Aiden cross towards the bars that divided their cells. “Hey, Wolf,” he said, voice raspy and rough. Aubry crossed over, noticing the way the other man tensed a little as he got close. The slender Cat licked his lips nervously, single eye darting, angling his ruined side away from the other Witcher. “Look, I—I’m…last night, I just—I’m really s—”

“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Aubry interrupted sternly. Aiden’s jaw twitched and he could tell the Cat was gonna push it. “And if you try to apologize again, I’ll make you swallow it. See that I don’t.”

Aiden’s eye snapped wide and he physically reared back away from the bars. Then his face split into a lopsided grin and he snorted softly. “Fair enough,” he murmured. Aubry nodded with a grunt. He picked up the history book he’d been reading the day before and slide down the bars as he found his page. It took a full chapter for Aiden to settle enough to join him, sitting shoulder to shoulder as Aubry explained the rules of succession for the noble families of Redania. 

______________________________

Winter came to Kaer Morhen with a vengeance, the storms battering at the walls earlier than Vesemir had seen in years. At this rate, the Pass would be impassible within the week, and he was still missing a Wolf.

Eskel had arrived early this year, nursing a Bruxa wound. He’d lost weight over the season and it hurt to see one of his pups looking so lean. Geralt had arrived with the storm, his bard in tow as they stumbled into the keep with the snow chasing their heels. Geralt looked well, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Although he would never admit it under pain or death, the bard seemed to be good for the brooding White Wolf. Geralt had smiled more in two days than Vesemir remembered seeing in many a season. And it was nice to have music in the keep. Made the broken stone feel alive again.

But their pack wasn’t not complete and as the hours passed with no sign of anyone on the Trail, the more anxious Vesemir got. “Who saw him last?” he asked over dinner on the fifth night of the storm. The trek up the mountain would be near impossible now, even for a Witcher. “Did he mention anything of wintering somewhere else this season?”

“I haven’t seen him since spring,” Eskel said around a mouthful of potato. His shrug was dismissive but there was a crease between his brows that betrayed his worry.

“We saw him outside Oxenfurt before the leaves turned,” rumbled Geralt. “He didn’t say he wasn’t.”

Vesemir’s eyes narrowed as the bard opened his mouth only to yelp as Geralt kicked him under the table. “Something to add?” the sword master asked pointedly. The bard’s eyes widened, flicking nervously between Vesemir and Geralt before mutely shaking his head. “For a bard, you’re a shit liar, lad. Now, spit it out,” he growled, pinning the man with a stern look.

“I—that is we—,” Jaskier stumbled, licking his lips nervously. “He wasn’t—he didn’t seem in the best, ah, place? When we saw him,” he settled on weakly, hands flapping a little as he spoke.

Vesemir raised a single eyebrow and the bard practically fainted from fright. “He thought he saw Aiden in Oxenfurt,” growled Geralt, coming to his bard’s rescue. Eskel swore profusely as Vesemir felt his hand tighten around his spoon. The bard looked incredibly pained and Geralt was refusing to look up from his bowl of stew.

Vesemir sighed, forcing himself to let go of his utensil. The gods were never fair nor kind to any Witcher, but they’d been particularly cruel to the youngest Wolf. Anger and resentment had turned him biting and oft times cruel, lashing out before the world could hurt him first. He hated being a Witcher, hated what Vesemir and the other masters had made him into. He hated Kaer Morhen, for all that he showed up winter after winter.

He hated Geralt for his success on the Path and his golden Witcher reputation, although the heat of that hate had all but died out over the last decade. Vesemir suspected there was a bit of bitter hero worship left over from when they were students baked into the foundation of that particular resentment. He wasn’t sure what Lambert thought about the bard but he could guess. In truth, Eskel was really the only one Lambert had any kind of close connection with and even then, he still held the scarred Witcher at arms length.

Vesemir often wondered if their training methods hadn’t caused more problems than they fixed. The Trials that made a Witcher were brutal. Three in ten survived the Grasses and even less survived the Dreams. The Path was brutal. Witchers did not die old and asleep in their beds. They died young and alone, bleeding out in ditches on the side of roads. So they made training brutal. It had to be. Any and all weaknesses had to be burned out. Nothing that might compromise a Witcher on the Path could be left behind.

He had never really believed that the mutagens took away emotions, but he’d perpetuated the belief along with all the other masters. Emotional attachments were a liability for a Witcher. They couldn’t afford any distractions. But now, thinking on Lambert’s anger and Eskel’s loneliness, seeing the gentle light in Geralt’s eyes whenever he looked at that damn bard, he thinks that maybe the old masters had got it wrong.

But by the gods, why his pup had to get tangled up with a fucking lunatic Cat of all things…

Before he could spiral too far down that depressing trail of thought, Vesemir felt his medallion thrum against his chest. Geralt’s head jerked up as if on a string and Eskel rose halfway out of his seat before he realized what he was doing. The vibrations died away just as soon as they came, leaving one very confused looking bard and three Witchers very much on edge.

They went back to their meal but the tension in the room was physically palpable. About an hour passed before Vesemir heard the exterior door into the hall scrape open. A bitter wind whipped through the adjoining door into the dining hall, chasing in snow. All worries melted away as that wind brought a familiar scent with it. Jaskier glanced around, still confused as the wolves around him relaxed. Before he could ask, footsteps echoed outside in the hall and a snow dusted Witcher swept into the room.

Thick white flakes lay heavy on his shoulders and hair, but not at the levels that would indicate a hike up the mountain. Lambert just had enough time to dump his pack and unclasp his cloak before he was nearly bowled over by one of his brothers. “Argh, what the fuck, Eskel?” he growled, squirming to extract himself from the taller man’s bearhug. It quickly devolved into a wrestling match and ended with Eskel grappling the shorter man into a headlock.

“You’re late, little wolf,” the scarred Witcher chuckled, ruffling Lambert’s overgrown hair before letting him go.

“Dickhead,” Lambert scowled, smacked his fist none too gently into the bigger man’s shoulder. Eskel just grinned and dragged the shorter Wolf over to the table with an arm slung across his shoulders.

“Fuckin’ horse got killed out from under me. Not enough coin for a replacement,” Vesemir heard Lambert grumble as he slipped into the kitchen to fill up another bowl of stew. “Walked ‘cross half the damn continent just to find a mage who’d take half payment and a bag of Nekkers teeth for a portal.”

“Welcome back, pup,” Vesemir rumbled as he placed the bowl of stew and a roll on the table.

“Thanks, old man,” Lambert grinned sharply, showing teeth before he ripped apart the roll and slathered it with honeyed butter. “Geralt,” he said in stilted greeting, getting a grunt in acknowledgement. Then his eyes slid over to where Jaskier was partially hidden behind Geralt’s wide torso, and narrowed dangerously. “What the fuck is the fuckin’ bard doing here?!”

Jaskier blanched and then flushed pink as he started laying into Lambert as good as he got. The two snarked back and forth at each other as Geralt continued to quietly eat his dinner while Eskel watched with interest. Vesemir felt his eyebrowsraise as Jaskier explained in great detail exactly what Lambert could do with his swords. While not strictly speaking anatomically possible, it was a rather colourful and creative description.

Vesemir felt something warm bloom under his ribs as the quarrel continued, eventually dragging Eskel and finally Geralt into the fray. All his boys were home and safe for another winter. He buried an unexpected smile into his tea mug, and only intervened in their bickering when it looked like the teasing might devolve into an all out brawl.


	4. Chapter 4

Aiden was tucked into the corner by the door, elbow resting on the bars as he read the poetry book the mage had left for him. It was a collection of Elvish works and a terrible translation. He knew a lot of the poems already and whoever did the transcribing deserve to have their tongue cut out.

The mage had left them alone for almost three weeks now. Food came twice a day, just enough to satisfy most of the Witcher’s enhanced metabolism but it felt like a lean season with contracts few and far between. And that was it. There were windows in the cells but they were in the hallway and too narrow to see anything but a sliver of sky and about an hour of sunlight every day. By fuck, was Aiden bored, and this butchery of a book certainly wasn’t helping things along.

Footsteps echoed out in the hallway, growing closer, and Aiden instantly took back every complain he had about being bored. Boring was fine. Boring was great. In fact, boring was perfect. Boring didn’t hurt, didn’t flay your skin in strips just to see how long it took to heal. Thankfully the mage hadn’t done that since the first few months.

Said man whirled into the room with a sweep of rich plum coloured robes. His eyes were glittering, mouth set into a thin stern line. He didn’t look angry per se. He just looked…focused. He stopped short of Aiden’s door, opening Aubry’s instead and beckoning impatiently with two fingers. Aiden’s hackles immediately went up. The mage never came for Aubry. He’d been here for fucking years and never once had the mage let the Wolf Witcher out except to watch over Aiden after a forced bloodrage. Aubry looked up from his book but didn’t make a move.

The mage snapped his fingers impatiently. “Do I have to get strict or are you going to _behave_?” he said sternly. Aubry jerked like someone had poked him with a hot iron. Aiden could see the Witcher’s jaw muscles twitch but he set his own book aside and padded barefoot after the mage without a fight.

They were gone for hours. Aiden’s morning meal came but nothing was brought to Aubry’s empty cell. Dinner was the same. Both meals went uneaten. Aiden stomach twisted at the mere thought of food. He paced a bit, but quickly forced himself to meditate instead. Pacing just made anxiety worse. He never reached a deep meditation, but he was able to slow his heart rate a little and mostly clear his mind.

Finally, finally, the mage returned with Aubry a tall shadow behind him. The mage looked settled, calm even. In contrast, Aubry’s shoulders were hunched in on themselves, making him seem smaller than he was. The dark haired man was walking carefully, as if afraid to make any sudden movements.

“You look like shit, Wolf,” Aiden drawled after the mage had gone but the other Witcher just ignored him. He didn’t even seem to hear him. He just shuffled into the far corner and sat down, pressing his forehead against the cold stone.

Alarm bells clanged in Aiden’s head. “You still alive over there?” he asked, padding across his cell and threaded his arms through the bars. “Hey, we had a deal. No abandoning each other in shitholes, remember?” he teased, but he didn’t get so much as a twitch out of the other man. “Come on, big guy, you’re starting to scare…me,” he trailed off as a thick copper smell assaulted his nose.

He squinted into the shadows and blanched at what he saw. What he’d at first taken for shadows or maybe dirt was actually blood. It had soaked through Aubry’s shirt in abstract shapes, making the cotton stick to his hunched back. “What the fuck did he do?” he growled.

That got a reaction but not one that was very encouraging. A shiver racked through Aubry’s entire body and he shook his head, grinding his forehead against the stone. “Leave me alone,” he mumbled.

“Nuh uh,” Aiden rumbled. “Talk to me, big guy. How can I help?”

“Just leave me alone. Please.”

There was a bitter taste in Aiden’s mouth and swallowing did nothing to alleviate it. He’d never heard the big Witcher sound so small. Aubry wasn’t the one who fell apart. He was the one who held them both together. If he fell apart, well, that was it, wasn’t it?

Aiden sucked in a deep breath, letting it slowly out of his nose. Without any other ideas, he snatched up the stupid poetry book and dropped down his cot. He opened it to a random page and started to read.

“‘I stumbled o’er vales, hills and lakes; lonely for as I the cloud could—nope, nope. Fuck that translation, absolute trash.” He tossed the book aside in disgust, not even bothering to see where it landed. He stole a glance at Aubry and found the other Witcher hadn’t moved an inch. He sighed again, leaned his head back against the stone, and closed his eye. Thankfully, he had memorized that particular poem.

“I wandered lonely as a cloud,

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”

He’d always like this poem, had always found a comfort in it. When Kiyan was teaching him how to control the unstable side effects of his mutations, Aiden had found memorizing poems was a tremendous help. There was a calmness in the rhythms, something he could focus his mind on whenever he felt the madness and rage clawing its way to the surface. Lambert had tolerated it begrudgingly, chalking it up to another weird eccentric side of the Cat. Aiden had never gotten around to telling him the real reason. 

“Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in a never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in a sprightly dance.”

After about half the poem, he heard a soft rustling but he kept his eye closed until he had finished. Slowly, he turned his head to find Aubry had turned to face him. His eyes were closed as he leaned his head sideways against the wall, arms wrapped loosely around himself.

It took a few more breaths of silence before the Witcher opened blurry looking eyes. There was something dazed and listless about them, like he was coming down from ahigh or a bad bout of toxicity. “Morning, bright eyes,” drawled Aiden. That pulled a weak chuckle from Aubry and he scrubbed at his eye with the heel of his palm. There was something so childlike in the gesture, so unsettling in such a big man. “Come here, let’s get you cleaned up,” he murmured.

The other Witcher’s face fell blank. “It’s fine. It’ll heal,” he mumbled.

“Never said it wouldn’t,” countered Aiden, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes. This was an argument he’d had many times before with another stubborn Wolf Witcher. “Doesn’t mean you gotta suffer in the meantime.”

Aubry wouldn’t meet his eyes, his fingers picking at the sleeves of his shirt as his teeth worried at his bottom lip. “It…it’s probably not gonna be pretty,” he muttered stiltedly.

Aiden snorted rudely. “You’ve seen me in a full bloodlust frenzy, Wolf, multiple times. I think we can handle whatever it is.” Aubry still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Unless you don’t want to be touched right now,” Aiden said, backpedaling a little to give the other Witcher an out.

“No, it’s…,” Aubry fumbled, then sighed. “It’s fine.”

“Good. Now come here. And give me that shirt, it’s ruined anyways.” He retrieved the water jug from the desk, watching out of the corner of his eye as the Wolf got slowly to his feet and gingerly removed his shirt. Aiden sat crosslegged in front of the bars, accepting the piece of clothing and ripping it until he had a clean enough piece to work with.

“You know, this’ll work better if I can actually see,” Aiden teased gently as he rung water from the rag. Aubry hesitated. This tentativeness was so unlike the big Wolf. He was chewing on his bottom lip again, radiating nervous energy. But Aiden could be patient for things that mattered. He could and would wait the other Witcher out. After a long beat, Aubry turned and sat, wrapping his arms around his knees.

Aiden was careful not to make a sound but he couldn’t stifle the physical wince. The man’s back was covered in blood, some fresh and some hours since dried. Underneath it all was a myriad of scars stretching from the base of his neck down to the middle of his back, and stretching out across both shoulders. The thickness was varied, as was the age of the scars. Some looked like they’d been reopened multiple times to thicken them. This was torture that had been going on for years. Aiden wouldn’t be surprised if the true answer was decades.

Aubry’s skin shivered as Aiden swept the damp cloth gently down his spine. The Cat paid careful attention to where the new wounds were and there were many. Most of the cuts had already started to scab. Some he accidentally reopened as he cleaned the dried blood caked over and around them. It took a while but finally he had the Witcher’s skin pretty much clean and this time, he couldn’t stop a sharp inhale. 

“That bad huh?” Aubry murmured, his voice painfully soft.

“No, it’s…have you never seen it?”

Tension rippled like a wave through broad shoulders as the back of the Witcher’s shaggy head shook back and forth. “Could never make any sense of a pattern when he was—was working on it. It’s always felt random. And it wasn’t like he’s ever paraded me past a mirror.”

Aiden couldn’t help but touch. He brushed a careful finger over Aubry’s ribs, following the edge of one of the thicker scars. The skin shivered under his touch, rippling oddly where scar tissue pulled it tight. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He definitely didn’t mean to say that out loud. He felt Aubry flinch, casting a wide eyed look back over his shoulder.

If Aiden could blush, he’d be red from ear to ear. “Fuck, sorry,” he muttered.

Aubry tucked his chin against his own shoulder, looking everywhere but Aiden. The Cat could see the man’s jaw muscles working overtime. He’d crossed a line, Aiden knew he had. He chewed on his lip, not even wincing as his teeth sliced into his lip. He just had to figure out something to say, something to fill this awful silence, something that wouldn’t make it worse and—

“What’s it look like?” Aubry’s question was less than a whisper, barely an exhale of breath. Aiden swallowed thickly, letting his eyes rove over the design—the thick sweeping outline, the delicate geometric work inside, curving scars as graceful as a painter’s brush, thicker knots of tissue creating texture and dimension.

“A wolf,” Aiden breathed. “It’s a wolf.”

There was a tense silence and then Aubry started to shake. It started off as a tremble that grew and grew until the man’s shoulders were heaving. Aiden’s stomach dropped into his boots as his ribcage tried to crawl out through his throat. He reached a hand through the bars, stopping just short of touching the man’s shoulder.

“Aubry?” he whispered.

Over-bright golden eyes dragged up to meet his, face twisted and breath hitching and—

“Are y—are you _laughing?_ ” Aiden exclaimed.

Low rumbling chuckles spilled from the man’s lips, quickly tumbling into an uncontrolled guffaw. It ebbed and flowed and seemed to go on forever. Just when he seemed to be getting himself under control, he looked up at Aiden and lapsed back into hysterics. Aiden could only imagine the look of panicked confusion that was probably frozen on his face.

“Oh, hah fucking hah. Laugh it up. Dickhead,” he scowled. Gods, I’m turning into Lambert, he thought as he watched the other Witcher struggle to compose himself.

“A wolf. A fucking wolf. Fuck me, that’s…that’s too much,” the man chortled, eyes practically streaming with tears. He got to his feet, stretching his arms above his head carefully.

“How’s it feel?” Aiden asked, watching with a close eye for a sign of anything beyond base discomfort.

“Fucking stings,” Aubry grumbled, wandering over to collapse face down on his pallet bed. “A godsdamned wolf,” he said, chuckling into his pillow.

Aiden hummed as he gathered up the tattered ruin of the Wolf’s shirt and pitched it through the bars into the hall. “Yeah, he gets no points for creativity there.”

The other man snorted, propping himself up on his elbows. “I guess he was being literal when he called me his ‘art project’. Fucking hells.” He huffed a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face and back into his hair. “Fuck, I’m always really out of it whenever he does that. Like everything’s fuzzy around the edges. I don’t know why it happens.”

Aiden shrugged, flinging himself down on his own bed. “It’s just your body defending itself.” Aubry made a puzzled sound, his eyebrows dipping down towards his nose. Aiden shrugged again. “Your body reacts accordingly to what it experiences. It’s why it feels good when you get yourself off,” he explained with a lecherous smirk. Aubry snorted but nodded, eyes alert with interest. “It also reacts when it feels fear or pain. We just don’t often get to experience it because we pump our bodies so full of toxic shit before a fight that it cancels it all out.”

Aubry hummed. “Makes sense,” he said, trailing off into a wide yawn. He shifted a little, laying flat with his head pillowed on his forearms but Aiden could tell there was something else he wanted, just wasn’t letting himself say it.

“Spit it out, Wolf, whatever it is,” he drawled.

There was a pause. “Would you read aloud again?” Aubry asked, still sounding far too hesitant for the usually confident Wolf.

Aiden licked his lips, running through his mental repertoire. There was no way he was picking up that book again. It didn’t even deserve to be used as fire started. “But I do not know who knows that bad secret,” he recited softly. “I do not see who sits astride my back, who cuts my flank so lovingly on our way to the dark mountain.”

He heard Aubry snort harshly. “Cuts my flank?” the man drawled sleepily. “After today’s activities, that’s a little on the nose, even for you.”

Aiden huffed but the man did have a fair point. “And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart. I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh. His reply was to move closer.”

“Are you trying to make me hard?”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s a critic,” he grumbled.

______________________________

Lambert kicked the door closed behind him, feeling very unsteady on his feet. They'd brought out the good shit after dinner, sprawling out around the table after Vesemir had gone to bed. The liquor was strong on its own by human standards—the bard was plastered after three glasses—but it couldn’t hold a candle to a Witcher’s tolerance. At least, not until Lambert had dug out a couple bottles of his special brew left over from the last winter.

Geralt ended up with a giggly bard halfway sprawled into his lap. The White Wolf himself had a dopy little smile on his face as he watched the bard prattle on excitedly about something Lambert didn’t give a shit about. Eskel was lounging with his back against the wall and his boots on the table, looking relaxed and hazy-eyed. His mug dangled from loose fingers a hair from being dropped on the stone floor.

Lambert just felt tired and on edge. The room had started to spin about three drinks back and the fucking bard just wouldn’t shut up. And the drunker the ministerial got, the louder and shriller he became. Lambert was getting a headache. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He slipped out, mumbling something about more vodka. He wasn’t even lying. He did grab a bottle of pepper vodka from the kitchen, but instead of going back to the table, he slipped out the back and climbed up the stairs to his room.

His boots ended up on either side of said room as he kicked them clumsily off his feet. His gambeson followed quickly, then his shirt. The room was chilly but he got a fire going quickly with a burst of Igni. His room might be on the small side but in the winter it was an advantage. He threw himself into the single armchair, leg hooked over the side as he took a long pull from the bottle.

The room warmed fast, blanketing Lambert in a comfortable bath of heat. He lounged, letting his eyes grow heavy as his muscles loosened and the vodka warmed him from the inside. He let himself float, focusing on the crackling fire and nothing else.

Nothing else that is, until soft footfalls approached his door. The door creaked and scowled as the musky scent of amber and nutmeg laced through with pepper vodka washed into the room. “I closed my door for a fuckin’ reason,” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a sad antisocial shit,” a raspy voice teased and then his vodka was pulled from his hand. His eyes snapped open, lip curling in a warning growl. It didn’t deter his brother at all, who had the audacity to drain what was left. “Dickhead,” he scowled. “You better have brought a replacement.” Eskel just smirked, the scarred corner of his mouth immovable as always as he waggled the two bottles he had in his other hand.

“Finally makin’ yourself useful,” Lambert grumbled as he snatched at the bottles. Eskel, the annoying shit that he is, yanked the bottle away from his searching fingers, clicking his tongue scoldingly. Lambert scowled, too drunk and grumpy for the older Witcher’s antics, and tackled Eskel into the bookcase.

He held the upper hand briefly, pinning the taller Wolf’s free hand against one of the shelves as he made a snatch for the vodka, but then Eskel just laughed and yanked Lambert’s feet out from underneath him. Lambert went down with Eskel’s entire bodyweight on top of him. How the bottles didn’t smash against the stone floor was anyones guess, but Lambert felt his ribs creak.

He snarled and fought dirty but Eskel was as slippery as an eel considering how big he is and managed to weasel his around until he finally had Lambert pinned. “Alright, you’ve made your point, now you can fuck off,” Lambert grumbled.

“And what exactly is the point I’m supposed to be making?” Eskel asked, looking down unsteadily at him with a shit-eating grin.

Lambert frowned, struggling to come up with a coherent answer. “I…fuck you, just get off me.”

“Eloquent as ever, little wolf,” Eskel snorted, settling back on his haunches. Then he frowned, swaying slightly as his eyes struggled to focus on Lambert’s chest. “Never seen a Witcher wear two before,” he murmured.Lambert frown deepened, not understanding what the man was talking about. Not until Eskel’s free hand reached to his chest, brushing lightly over the other medallion that hung next to his wolf medallion. Aiden’s medallion.

Lambert just reacted. He snapped his head forward, connected hard with his brother’s face. Eskel’s head whipped back as blood exploded from his nose. Lambert ripped his hand free and planted a hard shove to the middle of his brother’s chest as he scrambled to his feet. The bigger Wolf went down with a grunt, his head bouncing off the corner of the bedpost. He landed in a sprawl, staring up at Lambert with wide eyes.

“You—I—fuck!” Rage made his tongue feel clumsy in his mouth. His hands were trembling and Eskel was still just staring at him in open shock, making no move to stem the blood that was now trickling down his chin.

Lambert stormed out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the hinges. He made it to the stairs and then stopped. He growled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It was long enough this season to tangle his fingers into and he gripped it tight, letting the spikes of pain help clear some of the drunken fog. He could practically see Aiden’s disapproving eyes swimming in front of him, scolding him to go back and fix what he just broke.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

Eskel was sitting on the end of his bed when he came back, hunched in on himself with blood streaked down his face from nose to chin. “‘M sorry,” he said, his already raspy voice sounding completely ruined and fuck, didn’t that make Lambert feel like shit. “I didn’t think, I just…fuck, I’m too drunk. I’ll just leave,” Eskel mumbled, getting unsteadily to his feet.

“We’re both too drunk. Sit the fuck down,” growled Lambert, planting a hand to Eskel’s chest again and shoving him back down to sit on the bed. He grabbed one of the vodka bottles from where it had rolled and doused a goodly amount onto an old polishing cloth he snatched from the bookshelf. “Here. You’re getting blood on my bedding.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Eskel grumbled as he took the cloth anyways.

Lambert felt his face flush hot. “’S it broken?” he muttered, hand gripping tight around the neck of the bottle. Eskel shook his head with a grunt. 

“Good,” Lambert said gruffly, holding the bottle out towards the other Witcher.

Eskel raised an eyebrow over the rag. “Are you trying to apologize for breaking my nose with the vodka that I brought?”

Lambert scowled. “Just said it wasn’t broke, dumbass. Now drink your damn vodka ‘n stop complainin'.” He waggled the bottle back and forth until Eskel snatched it from his hand with a huff. Lambert grabbed up the second bottle from under the bed and threw himself into the armchair, yanking the cork out with his teeth. The anger was gone and now he just felt tired and drunk. “I didn’t…,” he grumbled to the fire. “I mean, I wasn’t…you…fuck.”

“Way to use your words, little wolf,” drawled Eskel as he crossed into Lambert’s periphery. He’d lost his boots and gambeson in the distance from the bed to the fireplace.

“Fuck off,” he growled, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. Eskel just snorted softly and flopped down onto the rug, lacking all the effortless grace he usually moved with. He leaned back against the chair Lambert was currently sprawled in, his shoulder scant inches from Lambert’s leg.

“Where’s Geralt and th’ bard?” Lambert asked once enough vodka had disappeared from his bottle. 

“Prob'ly off fuckin’,” Eskel slurred crassly, having gotten significantly drunker since he’d sat down. “They scamper’d away not long af’er you left, ’n…’n here we are.” He shrugged, taking a long pull from his bottle.

Lambert grimaced, cursing silently in his head. So Geralt had left to plough his bard and Eskel got lonely. Fuck. Lambert was alright on his own. He needed space and quiet to rebalance himself, especially when he was drunk. Eskel, however, was a pack animal through and through and heavy drinking always brought those instincts to the surface. Damnit, now he really felt like a piece of shit.

“‘M sorry I almost broke your nose,” he mumbled.

“Tha’sa lot of sincer’ty all at once, lil’ wolf. Don’ hurt yu'slf,” Eskel mumbled, clumsily patting his hand in the general direction of Lambert’s knee. Lambert snorted and shoved him, practically knocking the man to the floor. Eskel giggled roughly as he struggled to straighten himself, careful to always keep a sliver of distance between them.

Lambert could practically feel the amount of effort the man was putting out in order to stop himself from leaning against Lambert’s knee. Eskel had always been a cuddly drunk. Lambert remembered one time waking up sprawled in front of the library’s fireplace after a night of excessive drinking and finding Eskel wrapped around Geralt like a fucking Kraken. Lambert had laughed himself nearly sick at the pained expression on the white haired Witcher’s face as he’d struggled to free himself.

So he solved the problem for him and shifted a little so the side of his leg pressed along Eskel’s side. He felt Eskel ratchet tense and then slowly relax over the next few minutes until he was leaning a goodly amount of his considerable weight against Lambert’s leg.

Another quarter of the bottle gone and Eskel’s head started to loll a little, eyes blinking owlishly at the fire. Lambert rolled his eyes with a huff. He grabbed Eskel’s ear, making the man jump, and dragged his head down until the Wolf’s scarred cheek was resting against his thigh. “Tell anyone I let you do this, ‘n I’ll break more’n your nose,” he growled.

Eskel’s gave an unintelligible mumble, something that sounded close to “Didn’t break shit,” but Lambert couldn’t be sure. The last bit of tension released from the older Wolf’s shoulders, his breathing settling into soft snores soon after. Lambert settled back, happy to finish his vodka—and finish Eskel’s after he plucked the forgotten bottle from his sleeping brother’s hand—and watch the fire spit sparks.

______________________________

It had been another year. At least, Aubry assumed it had been a year. The stone walls had warmed to the degree he usually associated with summer, but lately they had been cooling off drastically. Either it was just a cold snap or winter was on the way again.

“Do you ‘member before?” Aiden asked him sleepily, completely exhausted from his latest frenzy. The mage had certainly been putting a lot of effort into refining the potion that triggered the Cat’s bloodlust, but it still left him in a catatonic state after the effects wore off, foaming at the mouth and barely breathing. And this time there had been no White Honey to burn out the toxins. Aubry had been sitting with Aiden for three whole days, his hand never leaving his chest in case those shallow breaths suddenly stopped.

“Before what?” he rumbled.

“Everythin’,” the slim man replied. “I was ’n orphan. Kiyan found me scroungin' inna back alley of s’m backwater shithole. He thinks I w’s four. Maybe three. Don’t ‘member it, tho. Don’ ‘mem’er anythin’ a‘fore th’ School.”

Aubry hummed. “Jasmine,” he murmured. “My father would buy my mother a bottle of jasmine scent for her birthday every year. Expensive stuff. Imported. And she’d fuss and say it was too much, and he’d agree and promise never to do it again. But the next year, without fail, there’d be another bottle sitting on the kitchen table.”

“Tha’s nice,” murmured Aiden. “How old w’ you?”

“When the wolves came knocking?” Aubry replied with a small lopsided smile. “Seven or so. My parents were killed by a wasting sickness. A Witcher found me trying to bury their bodies.”

“Fuck,” the Cat breathed, fingers closing clumsily around the Wolf’s wrist where his arm rested on the side of the cot.

“It was a long time ago,” Aubry said softly. “The way I see it, if Vesemir hadn’t found me, I’d have been dead within a week. It was almost winter. If the plague didn’t get me, starvation would have, or the cold.”

“Charit’ble way f’ lookin’ at it,” Aiden muttered.

Aubry shrugged. “Being pissed at Destiny for my lot always seemed like a waste of energy. I can’t change what was done to me, but I can decide what I do with it. Life’s miserable enough without me adding to it.”

Aiden was quiet for so long, Aubry wondered if he had fallen asleep. “If only all Witcher’s had th’ same outlook,” he murmured, fingers picking absentmindedly at the frayed edge of Aubry’s sleeve.

Aubry sighed and tried to choose his next words carefully. “Everyone deals differently,” he said slowly. “Lambert’s solution was to keep everything and everyone at arms length. He was a lot older than most when he was brought to the Keep, and his childhood was…less than ideal.” He didn’t elaborate further. He didn’t know how much Aiden knew, and he wasn’t going to be the one to tell someone else’s story.

Aiden had gone quiet while he talked, withdrawing his hand back against his chest. “How’d y’ know?” he whispered.

“You talk in your sleep,” Aubry said without missing a beat. He snorted at the absolutely horrified expression on Aiden’s face. “It was a lot of little things and given the options, it wasn’t much of a leap,” he confessed, taking pity on the man. “If Geralt’s the same man as when I knew him, you two would be at each other’s throats within a week. Couldn’t see Eskel putting up with you for much longer than that either.” Aiden made a face at that but didn’t argue. “But Lambert makes sense. He needs someone to call him out on his bullshit. So do you.”

“Thanks f’ tha’, o’ oracle ‘f wisdom,” the Cat drawled.

Aubry chuckled softly, stroking his hand through damp curls and back out of the Witcher’s face. After a moments hesitation, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to Aiden’s, a Wolf style sign of greeting and affection.

“Get some sleep, Cat.” The man looked so tired and was clearly struggling to stay awake. “Close your fucking eyeball,” he drawled, flicking his fingers lightly against the Witcher’s skull. “Remember, he won’t do anything while you’re asleep.” Aiden snorted softly but his eye finally did close and stay that way. After a few minutes, his jaw relaxed and his breathing evened out.

The mage’s scent preceded him into the hallway; rusty old blood and pomegranates, tinged with the smell like static tickling his nose that Aubry always associated with magic and mages. “How is he?” the mage asked softly, almost sounding like he cared.

“Asleep,” Aubry rumbled. “Don’t fucking wake him.”

“You’re very protective of him,” pondered the mage as he swept into the cell, heedless of Aubry’s warning. However, he was quiet when he picked up the chair from beside the desk and placed in at the foot of the cot opposite Aubry. He sat down with a graceful swish of his orange and silver robes. “There were three others before him, and you barely said more than a handful of words to any of them. You certainly didn’t sit by their bedside and play nursemaid. So why is he different?”

“Vipers are scum,” he growled. “They take contracts from whoever can pay them, without any regard for human life. And the Bear lost his voice when he got his throat ripped out by a harpy which I learned through a very frustrating exchange of charades. Conversations were a little one sided after that.”

A soft breathy laugh fell from the mage’s lips. “Yes, I suppose they would be,” he chuckled. The silence they lapsed into almost could have been comfortable, if it wasn’t for everything about the situation. Aubry had long since accepted the fact that the compulsions in his head would drop him before he twitched even an inch towards the mage.

“Why am I still alive?” Aubry found himself asking into the silence.

“What do you mean?” the mage asked curiously.

Aubry shrugged. “You just said it, there were three before him. You pushed too hard and they broke instead of bending, or you just get bored with them.”

“They were found wanting,” the mage murmured.

“What does that even mean?” Aubry scoffed.

The mage didn’t immediately answer. He leaned back in the chair, gaze pensive as he twiddled with the pendant that always hung from a long chain around his neck. The spinning movement made Aubry dizzy so he looked away, focusing instead on the soft rise and fall of Aiden’s chest. It was a testament to how exhausted the Cat was that he hadn’t woken up.

“When I first saw you in the mountains,” the mage said slowly. “The way you slew my companions with such graceful ease—opened Trianna’s throat and burned Liet where he stood—I knew there was something special about you. After everything you’ve endured, after everything I have made you endure, you still have such fire. Even now, after so many years, you’d rip me apart if given half a chance. I knew in that moment on the mountain that I had to have you; to mould you, to shape you into something even more beautiful than you already where.”

Disgust rolled like nausea through Aubry’s belly. “You’re a monster,” he whispered.

“Yes, I am,” the mage said without hesitation, a small smile twitching at one corner of his mouth. “I am under no illusions of what I am. But there are many different kinds of monsters in this world, beautiful Wolf. You fit the moniker as easily as I do. Your Cat certainly does. Or has his past transgressions not come up as a topic of conversation yet?”

A wordless growl ripped from low in Aubry’s throat. He knew Cat Witcher’s reputations. Wolves were taught to avoid them and to never work with them. It would have been foolish to think that Aiden was completely exempt from that reputation. But something like that didn’t matter. Not here.The mage just laughed at his growl. “ _Behave,_ ” he said in a silky voice, and Aubry felt the spells in his head tighten in warning. “And make sure he rests up,” the man added, casting a look down at Aiden. “I need him strong for my games.”

Aubry didn’t want to know. He really didn’t want to know. But the alternative was not knowing and that wasn’t going to help either of them. “Games?”

“Yes,” the mage breathed, flinty eyes shining with a sick glee. “Gladiatorial games for my winter solstice celebration. Just imagine it. Scores of prize fighters flocking to test their mettle against one single blood enraged Witcher. It will be glorious, don’t you think?”

He’s mad, Aubry thought in growing horror. He’s completely mad.

The mage smiled and replaced the chair just as quietly as he had taken it. But he paused at the door, one hand wrapped around a slender bar. Hesitating. “I couldn’t break you,” he said suddenly. His gaze when he looked back was steady and seemed to see straight under Aubry’s skin. “It wasn’t strictly for lack of trying, although perhaps I went easier on you than the others. You were the first, after all, and perhaps I became a little sentimental. But I couldn’t break you. You simply refused.”

The soft clang of the door shutting startled Aiden awake immediately. He flailed uncoordinatedly, only settling when Aubry put a hand to his chest and pressed him back down onto the cot. “Wha’ happen’d?” the Cat muttered, blinking sluggishly.

“Nothing happened, you’re fine. Everything’s fine,” Aubry said automatically, staring down at his bare feet. That heavy feeling in his gut hadn’t abated. If anything it had gotten worse, rolling unsteadily like the feeling of taking a double dose of Blizzard on an empty stomach. He idly wondered what wearing boots would feel like again. Would his feet have forgotten how?

Slender fingers threaded through his own and it was only then that Aubry realized his hands were trembling. “Liar,” Aiden drawled softly.

“Yeah,” Aubry mumbled, hyper aware of the cold stone beneath his ass and the contrasting heat of the hand holding onto his. “But can we pretend? Just for a little while.”

Fingers gently squeezed his. “Sure,” the other man murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Aiden recites from memory is part of “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” by Wiliam Wordsworth. The snippets are “Reverence,” by Sarah Manguso, and “The Platonic Blow,” by W.H. Auden, respectfully.


	5. Chapter 5

The Great Hall seemed to glow, bathed in a warm light from the hundreds of candles glittering on tables and walls. Twin fireplaces, so large a man could stand comfortably inside them, roared at either end of the room. Massive chandeliers glittered above, the hanging crystals sending spots of light dancing over the gathered crowd below. Money glinted in the shape of fine gems suspended around the slender necks of highborn women and in the rich brocade of the well bred lordlings.

Jaskier stifled a sigh and kept the wide grin plastered on his face as he made his rounds, his fingers strumming lightly on the strings. He hadn’t joined Geralt at Kaer Morhen this winter, instead taking a position in Oxenfurt teaching musical history and theory. The school had a two week break over the solstice and Jaskier was fully expecting to spend the time in indulgent relaxation.

So when the dean of the college came to him with an offer from some lord in a smaller outlying city looking to hire for a midwinter celebration. He had jumped at the chance to play a high society party after another long season of inns and backwater taverns. Not that he would complain about travelling with Geralt, but there was nothing wrong with appreciating the finer things every once in a while.

But by the gods, this party was beyond indulgent. Everything just screamed ‘look at me, I’m filthy rich’. He hadn’t even met the host yet, having been greeting at the side door by a servant. There had been no grand introduction of the man who had clearly put a lot of effort into this party yet either. He didn’t even know the man’s name, which was odd considering the amount of social elite that were in attendance.

However, Jaskier was a devout professional, whatever Geralt might say, and would play his best and flirt with the ladies just enough to make them blush and feel special without making their companions angry. He would dazzle and charm and leave at the end of the night with a goodly sized purse in return for his patience. It was a finesse that he’d perfected over the years with, well…arguably mixed results but he always seemed to make the worst messes when a certain Witcher was around to witness them.

After about another hour, he ducked behind one of the large pillars for a breather. To his surprise, instead of a wall, he found a small ornately carved archway that lead out into a narrow walkway looking over a small indoor garden. Gods, how much coin did this lord actually have? Could he be a mage, perhaps? That would explain a few things, certainly. He took a breath, settling himself before going back into the hubbub. He had two full sets yet to play, one before whatever the main event of the night was and one after as the guests partook in desserts and cocktails.

“I see you’ve discovered my hiding place,” a silk smooth voice murmured behind him.

If anyone ever asked, Jaskier most definitely did not jump. Or squeak in alarm. He turned to see a dark-haired man walk through the archway and join him at the railing. He was tall and lean, the kind of slim that came with low body fat as opposed to honed muscle. A neatly trimmed goatee sat around narrow lips. He was dressed subtly in contrast to the rest of the guests. Midnight blue robes trimmed with slender silver brocade closed high on his neck. The only pieces of finery were a single pearl drop hanging from one earlobe, and a large ruby gemstone that hung around his neck, winking in the candlelight.

“A delightful secret, my lord,” he said, bowing politely at the waist. This had to be his employer. The man practically screamed power, even if he didn’t display it with overt displays of wealth like the rest of them. “And a pleasure to finally meet our infamous host,” he added with a twinkling smile.

“As it is a pleasure to finally meet the infamous Witchers’ bard,” the man replied evenly. Flint dark eyes looked Jaskier up and down, like he was examining a horse for purchase. There was something cold swimming there, something that put Jaskier’s teeth on edge.

But the bard smiled broadly and bowed again, sweeping his arms out to the sides elaborately. “I am humbled to be recognized, my lord.”

The lord hummed, placing his hands on the railing and looking out over the foliage. “So tell me, bard. With all your well seasoned knowledge on the subject, what’s your personal opinion of Witchers?”

Jaskier didn’t answer immediately. Whatever Geralt might think or say—and say frequently—he knew danger when he saw it. And this lord practically carried a sign with it proclaimed in big bold letters. He would have to tread carefully here. “I find them quite fascinating, actually,” he said slowly. “I mean, no one knows that much about them, really. They just appeared when the world needed them to.”

“And do you think they will disappear again when the world doesn’t need them anymore?” asked the lord. He sounded nothing more than vaguely interested but his eyes told a different story. They were too sharp, too attentive for a polite and meaningless conversation. Jaskier had a feeling the man had another motive, but he’d be damned if he could even begin to guess what it is.

“Perhaps, my lord, perhaps” he said, settling for the middle ground. “But I don’t think that will happen for a long time yet.”

“And why is that?”

“Because as long as there are monsters in this world, there will be Witchers to kill them,” said Jaskier, turning to fully face the man. He smiled, a hint of a challenge around the corners. Testing the waters, see what might bite back.

“But are not Witchers monsters in their own rights?” the lord asked sharply, something gleeful under his hard gaze. “The definition of a monster is something terrifying and dangerous, wild and frightening. Does that not sound like the Butcher of Blaviken or the Kingslayer to you?”

Jaskier forced down the hot flush of anger that rumbled up his belly at the slight at Geralt. “Ah, but is not a lightening storm terrifying and dangerous, my lord?” he replied, careful to keep his tone light. “Is not a wolf wild and frightening? Yet we accept both of these things as part of the natural and necessary order of the world.”

“Interesting that you consider Witchers to be ‘natural’,” the lord commented, lips twitching into a smirk. “And equally interesting that you would choose to use the wolf in your analogy. Are you aware that you are called the White Wolf Whisperer in certain circles?”

Careful Jaskier, the voice in his head that sounded surprisingly like Geralt cautioned. You pushed enough, got your rise. Something about this is dangerous. Back down.

He grinned, tilting his chin up in a show of nothing but foppish fool. “I have not heard that particular title, my lord. The Witcher you speak of simply tolerates my presence with a brooding silence and that is on a good day, so I fear I am undeserving of it.”

“False modesty is unbecoming, bard. Do not waste my time with it,” the lord chided. Before Jaskier could formulate a reply, the lord turned and huffed a small sigh. Jaskier followed the man’s gaze to find a servant standing politely in the archway. That in itself was a skill; making himself known in the lord’s periphery but without actively interrupting. “I must go. I have been neglecting my guests,” the man sighed.

“A host’s duties are never done, my lord. I completely understand,” Jaskier said and bowed politely, a smidge lower than was strictly necessary per protocol.

The man pinned Jaskier under his gaze. “I too happen to find Witchers fascinating, Bard Jaskier,” he said softly, something dark in his voice sending a shiver up Jaskier’s spine. “Join me after your set. We shall watch the games together. I would be curious for your opinion on the night’s entertainment.” He swept back into the hall with a swish of robes, the servant exactly three paces behind him, leaving Jaskier wiping sweaty palms against his doublet.

______________________________

“Stop fucking pacing,” he heard Aubry scold but Aiden just growled. Sure, the pacing might make the anxiety that bloomed like a vice inside his chest worse but he couldn’t make himself care. He was gonna be pushed into a frenzy soon anyways. He’d forget everything as the bloodlust took over, so his mental state when that happened would not make a difference.

“Come on, Cat,” the other Witcher sighed.

“Just shut up,” he snarled, whirling around and getting up into Aurby’s face where he was standing with his arms threaded through the bars that separated them. “Just shut your fucking mouth and fuck off about shit you don’t understand.” Aubry raised an eyebrow, pinning him with a patient glare like the Wolf knew what Aiden was doing, but but still didn't take kindly to being used as a verbal whipping post. “Fucking what?!”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aubry replied calmly.

“No, but you want to so just fucking spit it out!”

“You gonna tell me to fuck off again?”

“I…maybe,” Aiden scowled.

“Not much of an incentive to get me to talk, then is it?”

Aiden just growled. He moved to start pacing again, mind spinning out. It was only a matter of a few minutes before he was taken upstairs, forced to fight, forced to kill. He didn’t kill humans. Not anymore. He couldn’t. He’d made a promise, a silent promise to never do it again. He—

A hand latched onto his shirtfront before he could go far and he was yanked into the bars. He snarled, throwing his weight backwards but a hand latched onto the back of his head to keep him still. “Stop,” Aubry rumbled as he pulled their foreheads together. “Breathe,” he ordered and Aiden found himself helpless but to obey, matching his shaky breaths to Aubry’s steady ones.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, but Aiden ripped himself from Aubry’s hold when he heard footsteps clanking outside in the hall, panic spiking like a knife to hit gut. Eight guards in metal studded leather came into view. One tossed a pair of dimeritium cuffs through the bars. A few sparks snapped as they skidding against the stone floor.

Aiden swallowed thickly. He moved as if in a dream, like someone else was controlling his body. It wasn’t the compulsions, those lay dormant in the back of his head. It was like he’d removed himself from…himself. Retreating into the back of his head. Preparing for what was about to happen. He snapped the cuffs around his wrists, feeling a gut rolling sickness as the metal closed against his skin. The door unlocked with a heavy click and the guards surrounded him. He could hear Aubry’s footsteps following him as far as he cell would let him but he kept his eyes on his feet as he was led out.

They cut his hair. A petite man with sharp eyes clipped it down short on the sides and shaved up the back of his neck. Pomade that smelled like burnt sugar was massaged into the longer curls left on the top, making it greasy. He was shaved too, which was a nerve wracking affair for all involved. Two guards pressed spear points into his belly, his wrists straining against the cuffs that strapped him to the chair. He caught a backhand to the mouth when he snapped at the barber, but it was worth it to see the weaselly man trip over his own feet with fright. 

They gave him new clothes, shoving him into leather pants that laced tight up the sides. A navy blue shirt and a vest of dark leather completely the look, cuffed at the wrists by matching leather gauntlets. They smeared coal around his eye, covering the other with a dark silk-soft patch. He was given no weapons which he hadn’t really expected but still made him twitchy at the thought of fighting fully armoured gladiators with nothing but his teeth.

The arena wasn’t too large but the walls were tall. Smooth too, nothing to act as a handhold for two fulls tories. He could see the guests crowding around the railings three stories up as the guards held him just inside one of the doorways. There were already six men standing in the arena, listening to the mage pontificate from his box seat. They were all wearing armour and armed to the teeth. He felt practically naked in comparison. Fucking bullshit.

He could feel the compulsions close around his mind, robbing him of his physical autonomy. From some unseen signal, the guards released the dimeritium cuffs. He rolled his wrists unconsciously as another man approached with a familiar looking vial of viscus dark red liquid. He felt the bitter potion roll down his throat, burning as it always did. The compulsions tugged him forward into the arena. The gate clanged shut behind him. His eyes roved across the balconies, seeing the finery, the looks of breathless excitement on the rich and richer. His eyes found the mage, sitting with his group of sycophants.

So they wanted a show, he thought as he felt heat being to build in the base of his spine. He bared his teeth in an ugly snarl, making sure everyone could see the canines that had been long ago filed to subtle points. They wanted a show? He was gonna give them a fucking show.

______________________________

Jaskier sat on a stiff backed chair and tried not to fidget. He sat on the lord’s right hand side, slightly lower but still with a very good view of the arena below. The lord had a notably smaller entourage than the bard would have expected. Two guards stood behind his chair a respectful distance away, and a very bored looking young woman sat on his left. Probably the fourth daughter of some lowbrow earl wanting to curry favour. The lord, Jaskier still didn’t know his name, hadn’t glanced her way once since they’d sat down.

The gladiators gathered below in the little arena were a rough looking sort. Their armour was a mismatch of styles, some of it a little ill fitting. Their weapons were of better quality than their armour, broadswords and laces and maces. One man had a war hammer, its spike glinting wickedly. Another had a net weighted heavy by small metal disks. They looked mean and they looked dangerous.

And then a Witcher walked out onto the sands.

He was tall and slender, especially when compared to the broad shouldered Wolf Witchers Jaskier was used to. This Witcher was all long limbs and narrow waist, with honey blonde curls and skin that looked like it hadn’t seen sun in a long while. He moved with a graceful air that surrounded him like a cape and wore no medallion. The only indication of what he was the single golden eye that roved across the audience with unhidden distain. His right eye was covered by a dark patch of cloth, the stiff material dipping down across his cheek and up over the corner of his eyebrow. And he unarmed, which had a spike of worry creeping up Jaskier’s spine. That leather vest looked unable to defend from a pissed off cat, let alone from swords and spears. And he had no visible weapons.

There was a moment of silence. The crowd went hushed with anticipation. The gladiators moved until they stood in a loose half circle. Then something changed in the Witcher’s demeanour. His lips curled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. And he started to pace.

No, pace was the wrong word. He _prowled_ back and forth, menace radiating from his very pours. He moved with an almost feline grace, slinking and deadly. He started slow, his strides languid and unhurried. Like a predator toying with their prey. Jaskier could feel something growing, like a tension that would eventually snap. And snap it did.A animalistic sound ripped free from the Witcher’s throat as he launched himself at the man to the far right. It happened so fast. He dodged under the man’s lace and snapped his neck before Jaskier had done more than blink. The lance flew through the air, punching straight through one gladiator, nearly all the way through.

The others fell just as quickly. One scored a hit, a bloody graze along the side of the Witcher’s bicep, but he fell under his own sword a breath later. Within minutes, only one was left. The Witcher stood in the middle of the arena, a sword in each hand as his chest heaved. All the other gladiators were strewn about the sand, broken and bloody. “Monstrous, isn’t he?” the lord murmured softly, leaning forward into Jaskier’s periphery. 

Jaskier swallowed thickly before managing a reply. “Truly, my lord.” Something was terribly wrong here. He just knew it. He knew the Wolves followed a stricter moral code than many of the other schools, but even then gladiatorial brawling seemed beneath even the reputation of the Cat school.

The Witcher’s gaze snapped up to the balcony, right past Jaskier to the lord himself. He made an aborted motion, as if he was about to leap forward but then was yanked back by some unseen force. Whatever it was brought the Witcher to his knees, hissing and spitting as he struggled against some invisible force.Jaskier cast a startled look at the lord, who sat there staring down at the Witcher with a small smile on his lips. His fingers were absentmindedly twirling the gemstone that hung around his neck. It twisted and turned, catching the torchlight and making Jaskier dizzy as he watched it. He wrenched his eyes away from it as a cold sweat broke out on his upper lip.

Magic.

The lord raised a lazy hand and eight more heavily armed men marched into the arena. They’d barely put boot to sand before the Witcher was on them and tearing them to pieces, quite literally. It was a blood bath. The sand was soaked with it, gore splattered and dripping down the walls as the crowd gasped and cheered. And the lord just kept twirling that gemstone.

Jaskier wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to do what he did. If Geralt ever found out, he would receive the scolding of the century. He knew he was rash, didn’t think everything through, but sometimes a man just had to follow gut instinct. So when the Witcher deflected a spear tossed by a fighter who was more bear than man, sending it slamming into the railing of their box, Jaskier seized the opportunity.

He leapt into the air with a frightened shout, managing to land partially across the lord’s lap. The woman next to them screamed bloody murder, the lord cursed and shoved Jaskier to the floor, but not before Jaskier managed to wrap his fingers around the chain of the lord’s neck. As he fell, he felt the chain snap under his hand. He scrambled into a low bow, babbling apologies as he discretely stuffed the gemstone down the front of his doublet.

“Clearly your nerves as not suited for such excitement,” the lord grumbled, flapping a hand disdainfully towards Jaskier, while also completely ignoring his young lady companion who looked like she was on the verse of hysterics.

“Apologies my lord,” Jaskier said, selling the flustering like a pro. “I believe you’re right. If you will allow me, I will step away to collect myself.”

“See that you do,” the lord muttered, his attention already drawn back to the sands as the next wave of fighters were brought in, unawares that his necklace was now missing. At least for now. Jaskier didn’t waste any more time. He cast a quick glance back down to the Witcher before stumbling from the balcony, gathering his lute from where it rested beside his chair on the way.

He walked calmly until he was sure he was out of earshot and then started sprinting. He ducked into a side hallway, three lefts and then a right and though a small door. He skidded to a halt when he was treated by an unfamiliar hallway. Fuck, this wasn’t the way he’d come. He tried to backtrack but must have made a wrong turn because the door that he thought should lead back out towards the great hall led instead into a lavish study. Of course he had to get lost.

Thick carpets and plush couches sat in the middle of the room, with bookcases along every wall, stuffed full with books and and bones and crystals. Strange winged monsters hung preserved from the ceiling. But none of these things were what really caught Jaskier’s eye.

There were four black velvet plaques hanging at equal distances above the large oak desk to the lefthand side of the room. On each were familiar looking silver disks, suspended by a thick silver chain. Witcher’s medallions. As he drew nearer, Jaskier could make out the symbols carved into the faces. Two had snakes heads, jaws unhinge with forked tongue and fangs exposed. One had what looked to be a bear, and the fourth—

The fourth was a wolf.

Pounding footsteps in the distance shook his from his horror. “Find the bard!” a muffled voice shouted. Oh gods, he was out of time. Jaskier lunged forward, grabbing each of the medallions off the wall. There was no way he was leaving them here. He ran to the door but he could hear the guards were already outside in the hall. “Search every room!”

“Shit,” Jaskier hissed under his breathe, hands tightening around the neck of his lute. “Shitshitshitshit.”

He glanced around for another exit but there wasn’t any. Only the single door in and out. Not even a window. He spun in a circle, panic growing. This was why Geralt always told him to never get involved, to just mind his own business. The guards were getting closer; their footsteps and voices louder. It was only a matter of time.

He spun, feeling something cold press against his ribs as he did. He reached into his doublet, fishing around until his fingers closed around the lord’s necklace. The gemstone felt like it was made of ice, little fires dancing at the centre of it. “Ah well, nothing to lose now, I suppose,” he muttered to himself. “Please don’t do anything nasty like explode or release a poison, or set the room on fire.” He whispered a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening, then dropped the necklace to the floor and brought his boot heel down on it as hard as he could.

______________________________

Aubry felt the moment the compulsions broke. It was like something in his head snapped and he could finally breathe fully again. He sucked in a shaky gasp, mind whirling with possibilities. What could have happened? Was the mage dead? And if the mage was dead, what about Aiden? His head cocked sharply upwards as a muffled scream echoed through at least half a dozen layers of stone. 

He curled his fingers and could feel the sliver of chaos that he could access as a Witcher answer his call. It was shaky and weak but a few well aimed blasts of Aard finally turned the locked door into a warped and twisted mess of metal. He leapt over the debris and raced through the halls until he found the stairs.

Two guards crossed his path, coming out into the stairs from another floor, but Aubry was on them before their swords could leave their sheaths. He broke one man’s nose, ramming bone shards into his brain, while the other dropped with his neck at an unnatural angle. He took the boots off the larger one—they were a little big but better than being barefoot—and snatched up the other’s sword. It was too heavy and a little loose where the blade met the hilt, but it was better than nothing.

He didn’t know the layout of the manor but it was easy enough to follow the screams and the smell of blood. He raced through a maze of hallways, finally shouldering his way through a door into a massive hall, with a vaulted ceiling and huge stone pillars along the left hand side. Through those he could see out over a small courtyard, balconies filled with throngs of people practically climbing over each other in their panic. Aubry turned a corner only to run head on with another man sprinting from the opposite way. His sword swung high on instinct, feet sliding naturally into a more balanced stance.

The man’s eyes widened when he saw him. He back pedalled, boots slipped on the smooth marble floor and continued his momentum forward. “Shitshitshitshit,” the man cursed, falling back on his ass. “I’m just the bard!” The man squeaked, holding up a lute in his hand like that would be enough to defend from Aubry’s blade.He locked his muscles, keeping the sword from finding a home in the bard’s neck. The man was small and slender, with floppy brown hair and a garish blue doublet with matching breeches and soft indoor boots. “I’m just the bard,” the man stuttered. “I was hired to play the party, to entertain, that’s all! I haven’t done anything or gone anywhere I wasn’t supposed to, I promise and—oh shit, you’re a Witcher!”

Aubry frowned at that. One minute the man was practically shitting himself he looked so scared and then the next, relief flooded through his eyes as if the Wolf was a long lost friend. The fear drained from his scent. It was still there, but less overwhelming than before. Aubry’s eyes flicking down to what the man held in a white knuckled hand. Witcher medallions, four of them. Clutched to the slender man’s chest like they were something precious and worth protecting.

“What the fuck are you doing with those?” he growled.

The bard paled, eyes flicking between the medallions and Aubry. “IfoundthemwhenIwashidingfromtheguardsbecauseIstole—,” he started babbling.

“Slow the fuck down,” Aubry snarled, glancing up as a few women in blood flecked clothes sprinted by, sobbing. Fuck, he needed to find Aiden.

“I found them when I was hiding because I stole the lord’s necklace,” repeated the bard, only slightly slower. “Not because I’m a thief or anything, but because I knew there was something stinky going on, I mean that Witcher who was fighting was not in his right mind, and then I smashed the gemstone because I panicked because the guards almost found me and that’s when the screaming started and I wasn’t about to leave the medallions behind I mean, I’ve travelled with Geralt for long enough, I know how important it is to return the medallions so I figured even if I couldn’t find a Witcher to return them to, at least we could pay the proper respects, I mean everyone deserves that, even Witchers, especially Witchers—”

Gods, didn’t the bard need to breathe? Aubry managed to pick out the important parts. “You’re the one who broke the mage’s spell?” he said, interrupting the bard’s ranting.

“I—ah, ye-es? Yes. Maybe. I think so?”

“Where’s the mage now?” he demanded.

“I—I don’t know,” the bard stuttered, looking wildly around.

Aubry’s second question was answered as a guard stumbled out from behind a pillar. The scream that ripped from his throat was cut down to a wet gurgle as he pitched backwards to the ground, another man latched onto his chest.Aubry reached down and hauled the bard to his feet by the front of his doublet, not taking his eyes off of Aiden as he finished tearing the guard’s throat out with his teeth. He dragged the bard behind him as Aiden stood, blood dripping down his chin. Feral eye latched onto Aubry and narrowed. “Run, bard,” Aubry growled, shoving the man in the direction the other guests had fled.

Aiden looked like he’d stepped out of a child’s nightmare. They’d cut his hair but it was now matted into clumps, the blonde curls stained dark with blood. His face and hands were completely soaked with it, staining his teeth and caked thick under his nails. His clothes, for they were only that and not any sort of armour at all, were ripped in many places but it was hard to tell if the Cat was injured. There was just so much blood.

“Easy,” Aubry soothed, reversing his grip on the sword so the blade lay flat against his forearm, the point aimed behind him. He wasn’t about to kill Aiden. Not after everything they’d been through together. Not unless he was given absolutely no other choice. The Cat Witcher snarled again. He picked up the fallen guard’s sword and stalked away from the body. His single eye burned with an insane rage, all of it directed now at Aubry. “Don’t even think about it,” Aubry warned, but he barely got the words out before Aiden was flinging himself forward.

There was no finesse behind how he fought, no control, no training. It was all just rage. Aubry managed to deflect most of the Cat’s blows but Aiden’s blade got through his guard twice; once sliced a line of fire across Aubry’s bicep and another across the outside of his thigh. He did his best, slamming knees and fists and the pommel of his sword into shoulders and ribs and kidneys. But he was fighting defence and he could only keep that up for so long.

He managed to hand a heavy boot to Aiden’s chest, sending him sprawling to the floor. “Fucking hells, Aiden, snap out of it,” he shouted, watching as the smaller man got up onto his feet, swaying a little. Aubry dodged a couple wild swings, slamming another fist into Aiden’s side. He felt ribs give underneath his hand, heard them crack. He nearly got a sword through the belly for that, and was to once forced to kick the Cat back.

“Come on, Cat, snap out of it,” he pleaded, watching Aiden once again getting to his feet again, madness still glowing in his eye. He wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t going to give Aubry a choice. “Please,” he begged. “Don’t make me do this.”

Aiden snarled wordlessly and lunged towards the Wolf. Aubry braced himself but the Cat only made it two steps before a confused look flickered across his face and he tripped on nothing. His legs buckled and he crashed to his knees on the hard stone. The decoction must have finally burned its way through his system because a familiar vacant look glazed his eye and he pitched face first onto the floor.

Only muscle memory from years of training kept Aubry from dropping his sword as he rushed to Aiden’s side and rolled him over. The Cat’s one eye stared unseeingly up at him, bloodshot and glazed. His breath stuttered shallowly in his chest. Gods, there was so much blood and no way to tell how much of it was actually coming from the Witcher.

“Well, wasn’t that exciting,” a cool voice drawled from behind him.

Aubry leapt to his feet, sword raised and—and he froze. His muscles locked tight against his will and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t reach his chaos, it slipped from his mind like water through cheesecloth. He couldn’t remember why he’d even want to move and panic flooded over him like a bucket of ice water.

The mage stood before him, arms crossed over his chest, a small amused smile on his lips. “Oh, you thought that my spell was tied to that stone?” He murmured. “Oh, no no, my dear Witcher. The stone was simply a focus, the lock on the door if you will. Remove the lock and the door will still stand, still latch shut. It only takes more effort on my part to keep it closed. But I must say, I forgot how easy it is with only one mind to focus on. Now, are you going to _behave?_ ”

Aubry’s knees hit the floor before he realized he’d moved. “Good boy,” the mage murmured wickedly. He stepped closer until he loomed over Aubry with a dark glint in his eye. “You are mine, Witcher,” he rumbled, a single finger reaching out to trace his jawline. “You will always be mine. Nothing will take you from me and if you think that—!”

The mage’s monologuing was cut off sharply as something cracked across the back of his head in a shower of wood splinters. The mage stumbled to his knees with a grunt. The bard stood behind him, eyes wide and stinking of fear, both hands clutching the neck of a smashed lute.

The compulsions shattered again and Aubry didn’t hesitate. He lunged, grabbing the front of the mage’s robes and yanking him forward onto his blade. He felt the breath punch out from the mage’s lungs, his mouth dropping wide in surprise. His dark eyes staring deep into Aubry’s. Not even blinking.

Then he laughed, a sick wheezing noise that bubbled around the sword in his chest. Aubry felt fingers overlap his as the mage overlapped his grip on the hilt of the sword. “Nothing, my…b-beautiful wolf,” the man rasped, blood dribbling over his lips. Aubry shivered, yanked the sword free and removed the mage’s head from his shoulders with one brutal swing.

He wasn’t sure how long he knelt there, watching the pool of blood seeping from the mage’s shoulders, creeping closer and closer to his knees; to where Aiden’s head rested on the stone floor beside him. Even in death, the mage kept looking at him from where his head had rolled, dark eyes wide and staring. He could see his hands shaking but they didn’t feel like his. Everything just felt numb, like being in a dream. Only able to watch without any control.

Movement in his periphery yanked him out of the stupor he’d fallen into. His hand tightened on the sword’s hilt before he realized it was just the bard. He stood just outside of reach, hands raised in plain sight. He hadn’t come too close or tried to touch him. Smart. “We need to go,” he said, his voice calm and even but firm, commanding even, and Aubry felt his head nodded as if it was not his own.He got Aiden slung over one shoulder, wrapping his arm around the back of the Cat’s thighs. He kept the sword in his other hand, and followed the bard out without a single backwards glance.

The night allowed them a modicum of cover and the deep hoods of the cloaks that the bard, who’d said his name was Jaskier, had grabbed from a little side room on their way out allowed them even more anonymity. It still didn’t stop Aubry from tensing whenever they passed the occasional person.

Aiden had not stirred once during their walk but Aubry didn’t expect him to. Without White Honey, he would be comatose for a few days yet. Occasionally a shiver ran through him, even wrapped in the thickest fur lined cloak the bard had been able to find. Aubry just cradled him tighter to his chest whenever it happened and kept to the slender bard’s heels as he led them through the snow.

The little house Jaskier brought them to was on the far outskirts of the city, tucked between a brothel and a bakery. The man who answered the door was young looking and clearly very surprised to see them. A mop of red curls was tied high on the top of his head, sharp cheekbones and slim features revealing Elvin influences somewhere in his heritage. “Julian,” he said in a soft breathy voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Perhaps we can talk inside where it’s a little warmer?” the bard murmured with a charming smile.

The man’s pale eyes flicked up to Aubry, then down to the body bundled in his arms before sliding back to Jaskier—or was it Julian?—with what looked like amused exasperation. “What trouble have you brought to my doorstep this time, Dandelion?” he muttered with a shake of his head, but he opened the door and let them in.

The ground floor of the apartment wasn’t large. A sizeable fireplace sat crackling away against the far left wall, with a steep staircase disappearing up to the second floor beside it. Counters and shelves lined the walls, covered with labelled jars, potted plants, and more books than could be counted. A large table with mismatched chairs sat in the middle of the room, covered with pots and bowls, mortar and pestle, various bottles of liquids and alcohols. More herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling in bunches.

The smell hit Aubry as soon as he stepped over the threshold. The rich earthy scents of the plants and herbs almost covered it up, but his nose still stung with that static-like sensation of magic. Unconsciously, he tightened his hold on Aiden, his lips curling in a silent snarl. This man was a mage.

The red head’s eyes snapped to his, a curious colour that could be green or blue but was too pale to really be either. There was something too knowing about those eyes, going unfocused like he was seeing under Aubry’s skin. Then a frown twisted his delicate features. “I told them,” the man muttered darkly under his breath. “I told them that man was a danger but they didn’t listen. They thought expulsion from the Council of Mages was enough and they washed their hands of the matter. Not as if they would listen to a simple herbalist anyways.”

The bard snorted. “Simple herbalist, my left asscheek,” he muttered but the mage wasn’t listening to him. His pale eyes found Aubry’s again, something dark burning there that made for the Witcher difficult to hold the gaze.

“Is he dead?” he asked.

Aubry nodded stiffly and the mage let out a harsh breath. “Good,” he murmured darkly. He seemed to shake himself, his eyes flicking down to where Aiden lay cradled in Aubry’s arms. “Is your friend hurt?” he asked, taking a half step closer. Aubry growled, low and threatening. The bard paled a shade, hovering and shifting his weight nervously, but the mage to his credit, didn’t even flinch. “You won’t come to any harm while under my roof, Witcher, you have my word,” he murmured calmly. He then turned to the bard, partially putting his back to the Witcher which was either extremely naive or a startling show of trust. “Now what can I do for you?”

“I need a favour, Yariel.”

The mage’s—Yariel’s—lips twitched upwards in amusement. “I haven’t seen you in almost a decade, not since that time in Novigrad when I woke up to a cold and lonely bed. And now here you are, asking for favours without so much as buying me a drink first.”

A dark blush stained the bard’s cheeks and he stuttered. “I would have—I mean, I should have left word, I didn’t mean to—it was inexcusable behaviour really, and—”

Yariel silenced the rambling with a light touch to the bard’s forearm. “I tease,” he murmured, settling the bard at ease. “What do you need, Julian?”

The bard’s eyes darted over to Aubry and then back. “We need a portal.”

Yariel’s eyes flickered, his lips losing the fond smile and settling into a flat line. “That’s no small favour,” he murmured. “I’ve worked hard to rebuild myself here. I am a herbalist and a healer for the people in this city, nothing more.”

“Yariel, please.”

“No,” the mage interrupted sternly, eyes sad and heavy. “I will heal your wounds. I will feed you, even clothe you if I can find something that will fit the Witcher, but do not ask more of me than that. I will not jeopardize my new life for you, Julian, regardless of what we may have shared in the past.” He turned to Aubry, a professional aura settling over him. “I’ll see to your friend now.”

Aubry saw the bard’s face fall as the mage moved away towards the fire, to hang a kettle over the open flame.“Fuck,” Jaskier, Julian, Dandelion—fuck, Aubry was confused—the fucking bard muttered under his breath. He planted his hands on his hips, worrying at his lower lip.

Aubry cast a look down at Aiden, where just a hint of his bloodstained face could be seen through the fur-lined hood. As much as he wanted to just take the Cat and run, he knew that wasn’t really an option. They had no supplies, no weapons besides the shitty sword currently thrust through the belt on his hip. It was the middle of winter and Aubry didn’t even know where on the continent they were. They needed help to survive and so far, regardless of how ridiculous the idea seemed, the bard was his best option. And if he said they needed a portal…

“Who would know?” he found himself saying. He felt the bard’s eyes turn to him in confusion but he was watching the mage. “We just told you the mage was dead. He doesn’t seem like the kind who would share territory, so who would know if you created a portal?”

The mage stared into the fire for a long beat and then a deep breath had his shoulders rippling. “Yariel, please,” the bard murmured, crossing the small room to stand a few paces behind the part elf. He laid a hand lightly on the mage’s wrist, where his hand was gripping tight to the mantle. “Please, you’re the only one I can trust.”

The mage sighed again. “You always did know how to fight dirty, didn’t you, Julian?” he muttered. The bard bit at his lip, looking a little shamefaced. Yariel turned, casting a glance back at Aubry, his eyes dripping to the bundle in his arms before he nodded. “Where do you need to go?” he asked softly.

Aubry couldn’t stop the flinch at the bard’s words. Two little words that dug up under his ribs and shredded his insides. “Kaer Morhen,” was what the bard said. A roaring filled Aubry’s ears. He didn’t even hear the bard move until he was standing in front of Aubry, still so carefully just out of arms reach. Like he knew exactly how to move around Witchers. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

“K—Kaer Morhen?” Aubry stuttered. “We’re going to the Wolf School?”

“Yes, I’m…good friends with Geralt of Rivia. It’s winter, so he’ll be there with his brothers and their teacher. They’ll be able to help us, help you and your friend. And then when the snow melts, you can decide what you want to do. Is—is that alright?”

Aubry couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t put words into the feelings that were swirling in his gut. He couldn’t find the words to tell the bard that he knew the Keep well, that the wolf medallion currently tucked in the bard’s pocket belonged to him. So he just nodded stiffly. The bard smiled, relief brightening his eyes. “Oh, I never did ask. Terribly rude of me. What’s your name?”

“Aubry,” he managed to mumble.

“Nice to meet you, Aubry,” the bard said, smile widening. Wasn’t this just completely bizarre. Thankfully, the half-elf came back before Aubry had to struggle to unpack the uneasy feeling of this man actually sounding genuinely pleased to meet him.

“If you’ll follow me upstairs,” Yariel asked, one hand on the railing of the stairs. “I’ll open the portal in the attic. There are no windows up there, and more room.”

The attic was quite spacious, with a sharply pointed roof, and various crates and boxes piled neatly along either side. Yariel walked a third of the way into the room and brought his hands up. A prickle ran up the back of Aubry’s neck as the mage pulled his chaos close. His hands swirled, white fire blooming out in an ever expanding spiral until it filled the whole attic. The bard went first, pausing just long enough to place a hand on Yariel’s shoulder and murmur a quiet word in his ear. The mage gave him small for smile, and the bard crossed through the portal and disappearing.

Aubry went to follow but an arm suddenly barred his way. Careful fingers slowly drew down his hood and pale eyes searched his. The mage’s lips pressed into a grim line. “I can still feel his chaos in you,” Yariel murmured. “In both of you. His control might have died with him, but his corruption remains. It’s thrown your own chaos out of balance. If left unfixed, it will cause you only pain.”

A chill ran down Aubry’s spine, the echoes of a dying man's words clawing their way to the forefront of his mind— _Nothing, my beautiful wolf_. “So what do I do?” he asked, swallowing the memories down, a bitter taste on his tongue.

“There’s no magic that can fix this,” Yariel told him, eyes mournful. “No decoction I could mix nor herb in creation that will put it to rights. Time will help some, it always does. But you need to find an anchor. You both do.”

“I don’t understand.”

Yariel licked his lips, showing no sign of the strain it must be to kept a portal open this long. “Think of it like this,” he explained. “A fire left unchecked will only lead to destruction and pain. Now, the fire cannot be blamed for this. Its nature is not its fault, no more than yours or mine. We are what we are born to be, what others have made us into. So instead, we pile stones and build places for our fire to burn in safety. And as we build to protect others from the blaze, so too do we protect the fire from being smothered.”

If this man was a simple herbalist, then Aubry was a fucking billygoat. He would have scowled at the mage’s prophetically cryptic explanation but his mouth was too dry to even swallow. Pale eyes caught and held his. An unsettling amount of understanding swam there and he was caught by the sudden realization that this mage was older than he seemed on the surface. A lot older. The echoes of centuries lay hidden there, behind gentle colourless eyes.

“Tend to your fire, Wolf Witcher,” Yariel murmured. “And find someone to help build your hearthstones strong.”

The man gave him a sad sort of smile and stepped back. Aubry hurried through the portal without a backwards glance. His stomach churned with a swooping sensation, and then his boots hit stone. The portal dissolved behind him with a soft cracking sound and he looked out over a cold stone entrance hall.

Jaskier was there, holding his arms up placatingly as he seemed to be arguing frantically with a tall white haired man. Boots cracked against stone and another two men skidding around the corner, swords in hands. And then a fourth, whose voice cracking like thunder over the rest of the commotion. Everything fell silent.

His legs just wouldn’t hold him anymore. Aubry barely felt the pain as his knees cracked hard against the stone, Aiden’s limp body clutched tightly in his arms. The roaring in his ears was overwhelming everything else, and all he could see were those four sets of golden eyes staring down at him, cat-slit pupils blown wide with shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeep! Thanks to everyone still reading, and thanks for all the amazing feedback! As always, said feedback is my fairy dust!


	6. Chapter 6

Five sets of eyes were staring down at him. One set was brown, the other four molten gold with cat slender pupils blown wide with shock and disbelief. He could feel the cold stone beneath his knees, feel the heat radiating from Aiden where he still cradled the other Witcher against his chest. Everything was swimming and off balance and everyone was talking over each other. Shouting. Someone was swearing. A lot. There was a lot of swearing.

“Quite,” a painfully familiar voice cracked through the hall.

Silence fell heavy as Vesemir stepped forward on stiff-kneed legs. He was older now; hair fully white and a beard he’d never had before covering a face slimmer than Aubry remembered. The lines on his face were deeper too. A few new scars scattered across his jaw and hands, new to Aubry but old and faded with years of age. But it was him. It was him. Aubry swallowed thickly as his old mentor reached back and took the sword from someone; the man with heavy scarring covering the right side of his face. The blade glinted bright in the torchlight as Vesemir approached.

Silver for monsters, Aubry thought idly. He ducked his head, unable to look into the man’s face any longer. He felt the flat of the blade pressed against the side of his shoulder. The small part of his mind still working properly knew that Vesemir was testing for dopplers. The pressure stayed a moment and then disappeared. Out the corner of his eye he could see it press against Aiden’s hip. A pause. A whisper of fabric. Metal clicked against stone as the sword was set aside. Then Vesemir was crouching down in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” tumbled from his lips.

“What was that?” the Witcher asked, his craggy voice soft.

“I’m sorry,” Aubry choked. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He could feel his eyes start to burn so he squeezed them shut, chin dipping down towards his chest. His hand flexed against Aiden’s cloak. The echoing silence that followed his outburst was broken only by the thundering of Aubry’s own heartbeat in his ears.

“No, lad,” he heard Vesemir murmur. Large hands cupped against his cheeks and his face was gently lifted to meet Vesemir’s gaze. Large golden eyes shimmered in the torchlight, blurry with more emotion than he thought possible in the stoic old sword master. But that didn’t even make sense. Vesemir never cried. "You survived,” the man croaked. “You survived and you came home. You did good, pup.”

Aubry’s tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth and he couldn’t nod with Vesemir holding his face. He wasn’t sure if he could believe it but he couldn’t bring himself to argue either. Something must have shown through in his eyes, probably had something to do with the way they started to overflow and spill down his cheeks, because Vesemir’s own breath hitched in his chest and he moved in to press his forehead to Aubry’s.

Aubry leaned into the touch like a drowning man to flotsam. He closed his eyes, taking a deep sobbing breath. He focused on Vesemir’s own breathing and heartbeat as he struggled to bring his own slowly into the same rhythm. As his slowed, he became aware of another— scary slow and slightly uneven, beating so close to his own.

“White Honey,” he rasped, pulling back. “He needs White Honey.”

Aubry felt one of the hands removing itself from his face. The hand moved down to draw the hood back just enough to reveal Aiden’s face; one glazed golden eye, the thick black patch that covered the other, and the blood that had dried in streaks across his face.

Aubry felt the hand still against his cheek flex. The hood was pulled up quickly as Vesemir looked over his shoulder. “Lambert, make sure the animals are bedded down properly. It looks like we’re in for another storm. And then go to the kitchen and put on some soup to heat.”

Wait. Did he say—

“L-Lambert?” Aubry stuttered, eyes flicking up to search the watching faces. There was one man in particular protesting Vesemir’s orders; a man with dark hair and and twin scars down the right side of his face. Older, but yes. It was the youngest Wolf. He could see it in the mulish set of the man’s jaw.

“Don’t argue, just do as you’re told,” Vesemir growled. “Eskel, go with him. Bard, the cellar. You know what White Honey and Swallow looks and smells like, yes?” There was a soft mumbling answer. “Bring a bottle of each to the hot springs. Go now.”

The hand disappeared from his face and Aubry felt Aiden being lifted from his arms. He tightened his grip, a protective growl rumbling deep within his chest. In his periphery, he saw Geralt stiffen and take a half step forward, but Vesemir was nothing but steady as he caught Aubry’s eyes. “I have him, lad,” he soothed.

It took effort but he forced himself to relax his hold on the slim Witcher’s body. “Can you walk?” Vesemir asked as he took the Cat’s weight easily in his arms. Aubry nodded again and managed to stand as Vesemir did. The sword master then turned and carried Aiden away in the opposite direction the bard had fled. Aubry followed, ignoring the prickling sensations along his neck at having Geralt following behind him.

The hot springs were as unchanged as he remembered them. It was a large and open, more cave than room and deep underneath the Keep. A large pool took up a good third of the room. It had been carved out of the rock itself and fed from an underground spring, with rich mineral deposits turning the waters milky. Slab-like stairs wrapped up the side to the pool to a wide landing for easier access, and the lip of the pool itself was five feet thick to provide ample seating around its perimeter.

A goodly bit of magic done long before Aubry was brought to the Keep had tapped into an underground river and diverted it into into a narrow waterfall that fell from the far wall only to be reabsorbed into the rock bed and then back into the river. The end result was a permanent rainfall used for quick washes before lounging in the springs.

Vesemir lay Aiden down on the dry stone floor and unclipped the cloak, drawing it away from the Cat’s body and revealing the state he was in. The room was quiet but there was another layer of silence that settled over the four Witchers as soon as the bloody ruin of Aiden’s clothes were revealed. It was thick and choking, with sharp cutting edges.

“How much of this is his?” Vesemir asked.

“Not much,” Aubry answered truthfully.

He could feel how stiff Geralt was standing next to him but he didn’t care. He didn’t have to justify anything right now. He shed his own cloak, dropping his belt and the piss poor excuse of a sword he’d taken on top of it. “What did this to him?” Vesemir asked as he yanked off the prone Witcher’s boots and then began to unbuckle his vest.

“Potion,” Aubry replied, kneeling on the other side of Aiden.

“What did it look like?”

This was easy, familiar—answering Vesemir’s crisp toned questions like he was a student again, being drilled in decoction ingredients. “Dark red. Viscous. Acid base. Arachas venom, maybe basilisk, ‘m not sure. Could smell beggartick blossoms and devourer’s blood on his breath.”

“Symptoms?”

“Anxiety, paranoia, confusion. Heightened state of aggression.” He could feel Vesemir’s eyes boring into him, demanding the answer for what they both knew was true. “It forced him to bloodrage,” Aubry confessed, feeling like he was somehow betraying Aiden’s confidence.

“He’s a Cat?” Geralt asked, sounding startled. Aubry nodded. He worked on unlacing the gauntlet from Aiden’s wrist, tracking footfalls against stone as the man came around for a closer look. He heard the other Wolf’s sharp intake of breath. “Vesemir, his eye—”

“I know,” the older Witcher rumbled, not looking up from where he was swiftly unlacing the other gauntlet with nimble fingers. “No one tells Lambert, not until we know he’ll survive the night.”

“He will,” Aubry murmured. He felt the Witcher’s eyes snap to him. He kept his eyes down as he set aside the other gauntlet and shuffled down to start on the Cat’s pants. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened. Even without White Honey, the toxins will eventually leave his body.”

“So it is him?” Geralt demanded sharply.

“Yes,” Aubry replied, fingers fumbling apart the knot that held the side of Aiden’s pants closed. He growled, the leather thongs snagging in the eyelets where they were tied tight along the side of the man’s thigh.

“Geralt, make yourself useful and bring that tub over here,” Vesemir ordered. “Fill it and then fetch soap and cloth.”

A flicker of steel caught the corner of Aubry’s eye. He flinched back on instinct, but it was only Vesemir, holding a small knife out to him hilt first. It was a symbolic show of faith from his former mentor, regardless that they both knew a Witcher didn’t need a blade to cause harm.

The sharp blade sliced easily through the lacings from hip to ankle. Aubry hesitated, then returned the trust by giving the blade back so Vesemir could repeat the same action on Aiden’s other leg. By the time they got the Cat stripped down to his skin, Geralt had wrestled the smooth wooden tub out of the corner and filled it with the water streaming from the rock wall and heated it with Igni. 

Jaskier skidded through the door just as Aubry and Vesemir eased the still comatose Aiden into the bath. “I got them, I got them,” he panted, holding up the two vials. “Sorry, took a bit longer to find than I expected.”Aubry didn’t bother to wait for Vesemir’ permission. He snatched the yellowish vial from the bard, leaving Geralt to quickly intervene before the other went tumbling out of the bard’s hand onto the stone. He yanked the cork out with his teeth as he slide his other hand around the back of Aiden’s neck. The Cat spluttered and convulsed as the liquid poured down his throat.

He set the empty bottle aside and began carefully getting the catatonic Witcher clean. Slowly the blood softened and flaked from his skin, revealing some impressive bruising and a few shallow blade cuts across his ribs and arms. It was easier to see now how the meagre meals, at least meagre in regards to a Witcher’s needs, had turned the Cat whipcord lean. Nothing but skin and muscle. Aubry knew he looked similar, although his wider frame held the illusion of good condition better. There was a harsh gasp from behind him when he carefully removed the patch from Aiden’s face, revealing the sunken socket underneath, seamed through with thick scar tissue. By the pitch, it had to be the bard.

He heard Vesemir speak over his head. “Geralt, take the bard and prepare a room. The one next to Eskel’s. And find clothes for the both of them. There’s a trunk in the spare bedroom beside mine that should have something to fit Aiden.” Footsteps clattered on the stone behind him, the door opening and closing softly. He could still hear them out in the hallway; the soft murmur of Geralt’s voice and then the sudden shrill response from the bard.

“Wait, did he say Aiden? As in Aiden Aiden. _The_ Aiden? _Lambert’s_ Aiden. How the fuck is that possible? Oh gods, does Lambert even know yet? Has anyone told him? And what about Aubry? He’s a Wolf, I assume, right? And how is _that_ possible? I thought you four were the last? And the mage that had them, gods Geralt, what a nasty piece of work. I mean, I don’t know what kinds of horrors he put those Witchers through, but I swear t—”

The bard’s yapping was cut off into an affronted muffle, followed by Geralt’s growling, “They can hear you, Jaskier.” And then silence.

With Vesemir’s help, Aubry finally got the slim Witcher clean and then they got him out of the tub and bundled into thick towels. “Your turn, lad,” Vesemir said, moving to take Aubry’s place where he was supporting Aiden in a sitting position. “There’s soaps in the cubbies along the wall.”

“I’m fine,” Aubry murmured. Vesemir opened his mouth to argue the point. “I said I’m fine,” he snapped harshly before any objections could fall from the older Wolf’s tongue. He ducked his head against the piercing look Vesemir fixed him with. Better Witchers than he had crumpled under that stern gaze. He couldn’t bare all his scars tonight, figuratively and literally. And he was clean enough for the night.

“Alright, lad,” Vesemir sighed. “Let’s get you two upstairs.

Carefully, he gathered Aiden into his arms bridal style and stood. The Cat’s eye was closed now and his face scrunched at the movement, a soft whine pulling free from the back of his throat. His head lolleda bit until Vesemir shifted to support the Cat against his shoulder. The White Honey would be freshly made here and so was burning out the poisons quicker than the times before. Aubry would guess a couple more hours and Aiden would be more or less coherent.

The room was warm and empty when they arrived, the linens and furs on the massive bed already turned down, and a large fire roaring away in the hearth. Vesemir laid Aiden on the fire side of the bed with a surprising amount of care. “I assume you will share tonight?” he said as he pulled away the damp towels and drew the blankets up around the Cat’s slender frame.

Aubry grunted in affirmation, fingering the neatly folded pile of clothes sitting on the table by the door. Vesemir paused, lips pursed into a thin line as he looked between the two of them. It was impossible to know what the man was thinking, but Aubry had a feeling he wouldn’t like it. “Get changed,” Vesemir ordered, pulling a chair over beside the fire and once again sitting with his back to Aubry. The Witcher didn’t seem to have Aubry in his periphery, but he kept his back to the wall all the same.

The shirt was tacky and stiff with blood from carrying Aiden and it was a relief to finally be rid of them. He could feel them pull a little at the scabbed cuts to his arm and thigh but thankfully, they didn’t reopen. The clothes he pulled on were old and worn thin at the elbows and knees but they were soft and clean. He was just rolling up the sleeves when there was a soft knock at the door. He inhaled sharply, breathing in a man’s scent of amber and nutmeg as Vesemir invited whoever it was in. The door opened and the tall scarred Witcher from before stepped into the room, a tray balanced in his hands with bowls of soup and more vials of swallow and white honey.

Eskel, Aubry realized with a start. It _was_ Eskel; older now surely but the age barely showed beyond the thin crowfeet at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His long dark hair was tied into a low tail, strands of hair falling loose and soft around his face. He looked good, even with the gnarly twist of scars that covered the right side of his face and neck. Somehow it suited him, accenting the strong cheekbones and sharp jawline as opposed to marring them.

It wasn’t until the younger Witcher’s cheeks blushed pink and he turned away that Aubry realized he’d been staring and dropped his eyes to the floor. Fuck. The man probably thought he’d been staring at his scars.

A light touch on his arm startled him and his gaze flicked up to a matching pair of golden amber eyes. They were of a height. He’d never noticed before that there was a dark umber ring around the outside of the man’s irises. Or maybe he had and just forgot.Eskel leaned in, slow and hesitant, and briefly pressed their foreheads together. Aubry felt his breath hitch in his chest, or maybe it was Eskel’s. The hand on his arm squeezed gently and then the other Witcher slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Aubry swallowed thickly. He snatched up the vial of Swallow sitting on the tray and crossed the room to sit on the bed by Aiden’s hip. He gave the Cat only half the vial. He’d seen the bruises the fighting had inflicted but it wasn’t anything life threatening.

Even as aware as he was of Vesemir’s eyes on his back, it wasn’t enough to offset years of ingrained habits. He reached without thinking to brush the damp curls back from the Cat’s forehead before letting his hand settle in the middle of Aiden’s chest to monitor his breathing through the might.

When he looked up, Vesemir’s face were carefully void of any expression, but he could feel whatever had been building behind the man’s eyes finally reach a boiling point. “Are you and Lambert going to have issues over the Cat?” he asked quietly.

Aubry shook his head vehemently. He knew how much Aiden missed the prickly Wolf. Even if he’d developed feelings for the Cat beyond brotherly affection, there was no way in any god’s hell he would get in between them. “No,” he stated. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

Aubry huffed. Leave it to the old Wolf to get straight to the difficult questions. “We’re all each other had,” he confessed quietly. “I said not like _that_ ,” he growled when Vesemir’s raised an eyebrow. “I…,” Aubry fumbled for the words to convey exactly what the other Witcher meant to him. “We just tried to keep each other breathing.”

Vesemir didn’t speak but his eyes softened and he nodded. He unfolded his long limbs from the chair and walked over to the tray, bringing back one of the mugs of tea. He held it out to Aubry, silencing his protests with a stern look. “Why haven’t you asked me?” Aubry asked his tea mug when Vesemir had sat back down beside the fire and didn’t show any indication of starting up the conversation again. “How I’m alive or—or what happened or—fuck, anything?”

“What do you want to tell me?” Vesemir asked patiently.

“I…,” Aubry fumbled. Vesemir kind of had him there. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to tell him anything, not right now. Perhaps not ever.

Vesemir hummed, settling back into his chair. “Drink your tea,” he murmured when the silence stretched too long.

“That’s it?” Aubry challenged.

“For now,” Vesemir replied calmly. Aubry continued to glare until the older Witcher’s shoulders heaved with a silent sigh. “I don’t know what you’ve been through,” he said slowly. “And I’m not going to make you relive it until you are ready.”

Aubry swallowed thickly, not trusting his tongue. He took a cautious sniff, noticing hints of chamomile and lemon and something a little bitter. Perhaps wormwood. He sipped it and when nothing happened, drank boldly. He felt the rise and fall of Aiden’s breath under his palm and let himself settle into the pleasant quiet of Vesemir’s company. The Keep might be hollow and scarred now, but weren’t they all? It still felt safe, being here. It still felt like home, or as close as anything did for a Witcher.

Warmth had seeped into his bones and his eyes started to droop without his permission. He felt himself tipping slightly, the mug slipping through ever relaxing fingers. He startled, a sharp jolt of fear shot through him. Hands grabbed the empty mug before it could fall and placed it on the small side table.

“Did you drug me?” Aubry slurred, struggling against the hand that had wrapped firmly around his shoulder to keep him upright.

“No,” Vesemir replied calmly, catching and holding his gaze. “I would never do that without your knowledge.”

“You did something,” he mumbled. He felt like his body was suddenly three times heavier, evenas Vesemir found no trouble in heaving him onto his feet with an arm around his waist and get him moving around to the other side of the bed. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open and panic hit low and hard.

“You did drug me,” he snarled, heaving back against the hold on him. He was let go and then was falling, but he didn’t go far. He tumbled down onto the empty side of the bed with a bounce. He rolled over, glaring up and Vesemir who stood there, ever calmly. 

“I hardly call a healthy dose of valerian root drugging someone,” Vesemir rumbled, not without a little amusement. “You’re exhausted. The tea just allowed your body to relax enough that it’s finally caught up with you.”

“But—,” he stuttered.

How was he supposed to explain that he’d not let himself properly rest is so long that he’d actually forgotten? For the last six years, he’d been the one watching over the sleeping Cat. That wasn’t something he could just turn off. Somehow, Vesemir had already gotten his legs into the bed while he was silently wrestling with himself. A hand settled on his shoulder. “I will stay,” the Witcher promised. “Let yourself rest, pup. I’ll keep watch.”

It seemed like that was all the permission his body had been waiting for. He just managed to get himself rolled over onto his front, to place a hand on Aiden’s chest out of habit, before his eyes fell closed and sleep claimed him.

______________________________

The first thing Aiden noticed before he was even fully awake was was how comfortable he was. He felt like he was floating, cocooned in warmth. There was a light weight pressing on his chest but nothing restrictive. The smell of cedar he had long associated with Aubry was there but nothing else was familiar. Clean cotton, chamomile, cold stone, woodsmoke. And something else. Something alive.

Aiden eye snapped open, looking wildly about the room. The bed he lay in was massive and piled high with furs and quilts. The room was plain; simple stone walls and floors, a table and chair by the door with a pile of folded clothes. The hand on his chest was attached to Aubry; Aiden instantly recognized the tangle of dark hair splayed across the pillow. He could hear the slow steady thrum that told him the man was deep asleep, the kind of sleep that only happened when a Witcher felt truly safe. Or when they’d been heavily drugged.

And there was someone else in the room. Another heart, beating strong and even. His head whipped towards the sound, towards the fire where a cushioned chair held a man he’d never seen before. Aiden flailed, struggling to sit up against the weight of the furs and Aubry’s arm.

“Don’t wake him,” the man asked in a deep rumbling voice.

The absurdity of the request had him freezing. His eyed the man—no, the _Witcher._ Aiden could smell the undercurrent of something metallic to the man’s scent now. He was old, older than Aiden had ever seen a Witcher be. He wore his long white hair half up and pulled out of his face, with a snowy beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were darker than Aubry’s and there was a weight to his gaze that reminded Aiden of his own mentor, Kiyan.

“Where are we?” Aiden asked, his voice cracking against the dryness of his throat. He coughed, trying to clear it but it only made the coughing worse. He still felt sore and worn out. A headache pounded at his temples. He struggled to track the Witcher as he crossed to the table and poured something into a small mug. He snapped tense as the man drew nearer to his side of the bed.

“Here, drink.” Aiden just glared at him. A flicker of what could have been amusement flickered through the old Witcher’s eyes as he took a slow deliberate sip. When nothing happened, Aiden propped himself up on his elbows and allowed the man to tip the mug to his lips. The water was cool on his tongue, and vaguely flavoured with mint.With his throat soothed, he repeated his question.

“Kaer Morhen,” the Witcher replied as he set the mug down and returned to his seat by the fire.

“And who are you supposed to be?” he gritted out. If they really were at Kaer Morhen, he had a pretty good guess who this was. Yet the last thing he remembered was walking into a gladiator arena and the next he knew, he was waking up here. He had the vague recollection of being carried in someone’s arms but that sat fuzzy and dreamlike in the back of his mind.

“My name is Vesemir,” the white haired Witcher said, propping his fist against his chin. “And as I understand it, you’re Aiden.”

If Aiden was tense before, he was barely breathing now. This was the man who’d trained Lambert, who’d practically raised him. Who was as close to a father as the Wolf would ever allow. The man who Lambert respected above all others, regardless of how much animosity and resentment was wrapped up in that esteem.

“Relax, lad, before you pull something,” the Wolf Witcher murmured not unkindly.

Gods, he even sounded like Kiyan. Stoic and stern and ready to strap you for dropping your sword, but would be the one putting a cool cloth against skin fevered from the mutagens. He felt his chest starting to tighten and fuck, not now. He always crashed hard after a bloodrage—if was even worse when it was a potion forced frenzy— but that couldn’t happen in front of Vesemir. Never gonna happen.

He moved Aubry’s arm from his chest, careful not to wake the sleeping Wolf, and sat up. He hunched over and pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes, hard. The strange dull not-pain that radiated over the right side of his face both settled and unsettled him at the same time. “Fuck,” he muttered, scrubbing the heels of his palms back and forth.

He could tell Vesemir was making his steps obvious so not to startle him. Half of his mind tracked boots over to the table again while the other half was focusing on reminding his lungs to inflate. He dragged his face up from his hands when the older Witcher neared the side of the bed, a steaming mug in his hands. The corner of his eyes crinkled a little and he took a very deliberate sip.

Aiden snorted softly but took the mug and inhaled. It was good to have something to focus on. Sweet and floral and something bitter. “Valerian root, hmm?” he murmured, taking a careful sip.

“Well spotted,” the Witcher rumbled. “Looks like the Cat has a better nose than the Wolf,” he added dryly as he returned to his spot by the heart.

“I heard that,” came a sleepy rumble to Aiden’s left.

“You were meant to,” Vesemir retorted.

Aiden closed his eyes, trying to focus on the heat radiating through the ceramic against his palms. Trying to let the murmuring banter between the two Wolves act as a calming white noise. He felt numb, like it hadn’t really sunk in yet that this was all real. That it was really over. He felt a gentle touch on his wrist and he flinched, sloshing tea over his fingers.

“Easy,” Aubry rumbled, blinking sleepily.

He looked so at ease, with his dark hair hanging around his face. Aiden figured it made sense. He was at his School, with the man who’d saved him from death as a child sitting mere feet away. He felt safe here. “How are we here?” he asked, shoving down the painful twist in his gut that he refused to acknowledge was jealousy.

“Something broke the mage’s focus,” Aubry said after a beat. While Vesemir hadn’t moved, Aiden could sense there was a rapt attention about the older Witcher that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Turned out to be a bard that’s friends with Geralt.”

“Jaskier? The 'Toss A Coin' bard? Seriously?” Aiden scoffed, his nose lifting from his mug in surprise.

“You know him?” Aubry asked, sounding just as surprised.

Aiden shook his head. “Never met him personally but Lambert complained about him often enough that I felt like I—is he here?” His eyes darted between the two Witchers with a frantic air.

It wasn’t Aubry who answered him. “He is,” Vesemir said.

“Does he know?”

“No.”

“Any particular reason?” he asked, putting steel behind his eye as he turned to get Vesemir into his limited range of vision.

Vesemir held his gaze easily. “You were in bad shape when you arrived. Looked more dead than alive, barely breathing with hardly a heartbeat,” the man replied, not raising to the bite behind Aiden’s tone.

“That’s it?” Aiden demanded when the white haired Witcher didn’t elaborate any further. There was a reason he never came here, no matter how many times Lambert asked. He knew he wasn’t welcome, not after what his brethren had done to the Wolves. Bad blood ran deep between the two Schools. If wouldn’t be a stretch for the master Witcher to toss him out into the snow and Aiden probably wouldn’t even blame him. But the man was just sitting there, looking at him like he understood him; like he could see under the guise to every twisted little corner of Aiden’s being.

“That’s it,” Vesemir murmured. “Don’t look for trouble where there isn’t any, lad.”

“I want to see him,” he said stiffly, not ready to unpack whatever meaning was hiding behind that particular statement.

Vesemir huffed. “It’s the middle of the night. He’s asleep, as we all should be,” he sighed, getting to his feet. “Drink your tea,” he added sternly when Aiden opened his mouth to protest. “You’ll both still be here in the morning.”

Aiden stared at the closed door the older Witcher had left through for a long time. “He’s not what I expected,” he finally admitted, once he was absolutely sure the older Witcher was long out of earshot.

“What, Vesemir?” Aubry snorted. “Just when you think you’ve figured the old Wolf out, he does something that flips your assumptions on their ass.”

A vague flicker of memory floated to the surface, his head cushioned against leather and muscle, the scent of mountain air and something spicy in his nose. “Wait, was he—did he _carry me_?” he asked.

Aubry nodded, lips twisted with amusement. “Well, that’s embarrassing,” Aiden muttered. He scowled as Aubry chuckled. “So what happened after the bard broke the spells?” he asked, sipping the tea.

“Nearly chopped his head off,” was the droll reply. “Then I found you. Killed the mage and the bard got us out of the city. He knew someone who was able to make us a portal. And—here we are.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “Little skimpy on the details, Wolf.” Aubry just shrugged, an odd movement for a man lying flat on his front. He knew that look. He wasn’t gonna get any more details out of the Wolf tonight. “Did you really kill him?” he asked quietly instead.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Funny, you’re the second person to tell me that today,” Aubry drawled.

Aiden scooted back until he could lean against the headboard, cradling the mug between his knees. He was suddenly revealing a whole lot more of himself than he was expecting and scrambled to pull the blankets back up around his hips. “Why the fuck am I naked?”

“You…needed a bath,” Aubry said slowly.

“A bath,” he repeated flatly.

“There was a lot of blood,” Aubry said with another shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. Ice flooded his veins and chased away any lingering warmth from the fire and tea. He didn’t seem injured. There were a couple shallow cuts across his ribs, another two along the side of his arm but those wouldn’t have bled enough to warrant a full bath.

The last thing he remembered after looking up at the balconies crowded with rich twats was waking up in this bed. He never fully remembered his bloodlust episodes. They were always soaked with too much anger. And the potion-forced rages were much worse. All they left was block of missing time. “What did I do?” he whispered, not wanting the answer but needing it all the same.

“What you had to,” was the Wolf’s reply.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Aubry’s reply was immediate and stern but he still wasn’t looking Aiden in the eye.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled.

“I’m not,” Aubry huffed, finally looking up to meet the Cat’s gaze, but he didn’t hold it for long. “It was close,” he confessed softly.

Aiden took a shaky breath, his hands white knuckled against the mug. He downed the rest of his tea, uncaring that it was still too hot for that. He could feel the chamomile and valerian root already starting to work. His eye felt heavy and his muscles were starting to relax, almost against his will. There had to be something else in there. It wasn’t as strong as a sleeping powder, but it was something. Hands plucked the mug from his once he was finished and set it aside. “Try and get some sleep,” Aubry murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Isn’t the point of being here that you don’t have to do that anymore?” Aiden drawled, scrubbing his knuckles against his eye.

“Yes,” Aubry admitted. “But you can’t say it won’t help.”

Aiden huffed heavily but at his core, he knew the man was right. A large hand settled on the back of his neck. He leaned into the grounding touch a little and tried to get the tension to finally unwind from his muscles.

“Is it really over?” he asked, hating how weak his voice sounded.

“Yeah,” Aubry replied, giving his neck a squeeze. “It’s really over.”

______________________________

_“Nothing, my beautiful wolf.”_

The dawn sparked bright against Aubry’s closed eyes and he was startled out of his meditation. For a moment, he forgot where he was. Those sickly words, slurred thick from a dying man’s throat, echoed in his ears. Then he blinked, and saw the familiar stone walls and four poster bed. The fire had banked down to glowing embers sometime during the night and Aiden was still asleep beside him, breath falling from his lips in soft snores.

He slipped quietly from the bed, wincing a little as his feet hit the cold stone. He padded over to the fire, getting it roaring again with a twist of Igni. He settled into the chair Vesemir had occupied during the night and settled in.

He was so grateful it was winter. He was glad that they were snowed into Kaer Morhen for the next few months. There was nothing to do but prepare for winter and train. It gave structure to what otherwise would have been…he wasn’t even sure how he what he would have done. The idea of going back to the Path like nothing had happened didn’t sit right. It made the decades he’d spent in that cell feel insignificant. As if it hadn’t changed him in any way. Like his suffering didn’t matter. And he knew it had changed him. He just wasn’t exactly sure how.

The sun was high in the sky, late morning by Aubry’s account, when the bundle of furs started to stir. “Rise and shine to you too,” he chuckled when the Cat’s head appeared, all rumpled curls and squinted eye.

“W’ time izit?” Aiden slurred.

“Still morning, if only barely,” Aubry replied as he pushed out of his seat and grabbed the pile of clothes folded on the table. Aiden grunted when Aubry tossed them into his face but began pulling them on. Aubry found boots and wool socks for the both of them placed neatly under the table. There were also thick padded jackets hanging on the hooks by the door. Aubry couldn’t hold back his amusement when Aiden pulled his on, getting a scowl for his trouble. The slim Cat was practically swimming in the Wolf sized garment. At least the boots fit.

Vesemir met them at the top of the stairs. “You missed breakfast,” the older Witcher stated. “There’s bread and cheese in the kitchen. You’re exempt from chores for today but after that I expect both of you to pull your weight. And participating in training is nonnegotiable. I’ll leave Aubry to show you around.” Aubry nodded when the former sword instructor paused, raising a snowy eyebrow in his direction.

Vesemir gaze shifted to solely focus on Aiden. Aubry could feel the Cat struggling not to fidget under the scrutinizing gaze. “In case you’re more comfortable wearing it,” the man rumbled, holding out a patch of stiff dark cloth. It had clearly been cleaned and dried. “Lambert’s working on decoctions in the east cellar,” he added before retreating silently down the stairs.

Aiden stared at the eyepatch, jaw muscles working over time. Aubry could see the man’s teeth worrying at his bottom lip, his thumbnail picking at the stitching absentmindedly. “Can you show me where the cellar is?” he asked softly.

Aubry lead him down a narrow spiral staircase, to a door that lay at the end of a long dimly lit hallway. He dragged the Cat into a brief hug, feeling the tension ratcheted tight across the slim Witcher’s shoulders, and left him staring at the closed door.

He found the kitchen exactly where he remembered it, found cheese and freshly baked bread easily. He wandered through the halls, struggling to figure out how he should feel. The Keep was so quiet, so empty and broken. He could almost hear the echoes of what he remembered. The soft buzz of voices. Boot heels on stone. The chattering of the children. It was just so damn quiet.

He tried to avoid the great hall, but it was difficult with it being so central. He would never set foot inside that place again. It was clear the other Witchers thought the same. When he passed, he saw that the door which had been blasted apart during the siege had been sealed with huge slabs of stone. Even if there were no bodies inside, it was a tomb nonetheless. Aubry shivered and quickened his pace, leaving the children’s ghosts behind him.

He ducked briefly into the hot springs, finding it blissfully empty. He washed quickly, scrubbing grease and sweat from his hair. He dressed quickly again, tied his hair up off his neck so it wouldn’t drip, and went back to his wandering.

He ended up in the library, happy to find it surprisingly untouched by the destruction that haunted the rest of the Keep. He hadn’t spent a lot of time here when he’d been a student but it felt peaceful to be here now. He browsed the shelves idly, letting his fingers trail across the spines of the books. Some sections were dusty and disorganized, others seemed to be well taken care of.

He heard the footsteps, too loud for a Witcher, and the fluttering heartbeat first before rounding the corner of a shelf and, for the second time in two days, almost ran headlong into the bard. “Ah!” the bard yelped, practically leaping into the air like a startled feline.

“Sorry,” he rumbled.

The bard, Jaskier he reminded himself, flapped a hand in his direction, the other pressed dramatically to his chest. “Oh, no need for that,” he breathed. “Spending so much time around you light footed Witchers is always a startling affair. Don’t let me interrupt. Vesemir has me organizing the collections. This is my second winter here and it feels like I’ve hardly made a dent.”

Before Aubry could say anything, the man’s eyes snapped wide and his mouth dropped open as he gasped again. “Oh!” he exclaimed so loudly and so suddenly that it was now Aubry’s turn to jump. “Oh! Oh! I completely forgot. So stupid of me. Stay here. Do. Not. Move. Please?” the bard fumbled before turning on his heels and sprinting out of the library.

Aubry listened as the bard’s scrambling footsteps echoed away to nothing. There was silence for long enough that it had him shifting his weight nervously, straining to hear hints for the bard’s return. He didn’t have to wait long. The man skidded into the isle, out of breath and sweating. And clenched in his hand was—

“I completely forgot, I’m so terribly sorry.” The bard kept babbling, but Aubry stopped paying attention. All he could focus on was what the man held carefully in his hands. His own hands shook as he took hold of the silver chain, felt the familiar weight of the heavy metal disk. He smoothed his fingers across the grooves, mapping each of the achingly familiar edges.

The chain was cool against his neck as he slipped it over his neck. He couldn’t help but to press his hand flat against his wolf’s head medallion where it lay in the middle of his chest. “Do—ahhem,” he cleared his throat, looking anywhere but directly at the bard. “Do you need any help organizing the books?” The bard’s toothy grin almost hurt to look at, it was so bright.

The rest of the day was spent quietly. Well, Aubry was quiet. The bard chatted incessantly but most of the time he didn’t seem to expect an answer from the Wolf Witcher beyond a nod or an affirmative noise. It was actually quite pleasant. And as the afternoon wore on, Aubry found himself contributing more and more until the conversation was flowing smoothly and on a wide variety of topics.

The sun was hitting the windows at a low angle by the time Geralt found them, sleeves rolled up and sweating from a day spent repairing the outer walls. Jaskier was sitting cross-legged on the ground as Aubry leaned against the window across from him. They were surrounded by huge stacks of tomes in desperate need of sorting.

If Aubry had thought the bard’s smile had been bright before, it was practically blinding when he tilted his head to look up at the White Wolf. “Hot springs?” Jaskier said excitedly. Geralt gave a weary chuckle and nodded. Jaskier dropped the books he had in his hand back down onto their pile and leapt to his feet. He paused, glancing over to Aubry. “Would you like to join us?” he asked and try as he might, Aubry couldn’t find an ounce of pity in the bard’s voice.

“No, thank you,” he murmured. “I think I’d…I’ll stay,” he gestured vaguely around the room.

“Well, the offer certainly stands if you change your mind,” Jaskier said with a smile, taking Geralt by the wrist and leading him out of the library. Or at least attempted to. The Wolf Witcher was as immovable as stone and the bard actually rebounded a little when Geralt didn’t follow him. “Geralt, what—.” The bard’s words trailed off into a slight frown when he caught sight of the Witcher’s face.

Aubry was staring too. For all that Geralt’s face remained impassively stern, his eyes were another story, fixed as they were on the medallion that hung around Aubry’s neck. Stiff legs that lacked all the usual Witcher grace brought him within a few steps and Aubry realized he was just ever so slightly taller than the White Wolf.

A heavy hand was placed on his shoulder and then Geralt was leaning in to press their foreheads together. He could feel Geralt’s fingers digging into the padded leather of his jacket, hear the slight hitch in the younger Wolf’s breath. He brought his own hand up to Geralt’s shoulder, gripping tight.

The embrace didn’t last long, and Aubry let his hand fall the moment Geralt started to pull away. The younger Witcher had been squirrelly about touch ever since his additional round of Trials, the ones that had bleached his hair white. Geralt hummed deep in his chest then turned around and stalked from the library without a word, leaving Jaskier struggling to catch up.

Aubry stood there quietly, taking a few deep breaths before blinking himself back into himself. He didn’t want to take over the bard’s job or mess with his system so Aubry instead retreated back to the sections already organized, grabbed a book at random, and curled up in front of the fire. The book he took turned out to be the third volume of a collection of fairy tales. This one was called The Juniper Tree.

_My mother, she killed me. My father, he ate me. My sister Marlene, gathered all my bones. Tied them in a silken scarf, laid them beneath the juniper tree. Tweet, tweet, what a beautiful bird am I._

“Fuck the gods, that’s dark,” he muttered to himself.

A soft yet hoarse chuckle had his eyes snapping up to the door, where Eskel was leaning against the frame with arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t even heard the tall Witcher approach. His long dark hair hung loose and damp against his shoulders. He must have just come from the hot springs. “Most of that _‘Wishes and Dreams’_ series are,” he rasped.

Aubry blinked. That sandpaper of a voice was a shock to the ears. Whatever had torn the Witcher’s face must have also damaged his vocal cords pretty severely. He swallowed, careful to make sure none of that startlement showed on his face. Eskel had ducked his head a little, like he was embarrassed by the gravel in his voice. Aubry held his place with his finger and waggled the book in the air. “You’ve read it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the scarred Witcher nodded. “Read ‘em all.”

“Which is your favourite?” Aubry asked curiously.

In lieu of a verbal response, Eskel pushed off from the doorjamb and crossed the main area in long strides to disappear behind a shelf. He reappeared a moment later, a slender book held gently in his long fingers. He handed it over before retreating to a safer distance, leaning his elbows on the back of the chair across from Aubry’s. He turned the new book over in his hand. It was a similar make and look but this one was green instead of red, and the silver emblem on its cover was that of a curled snake as opposed to a bird in flight. “The White Snake,” Aubry murmured, reading the spine. “What’s it about?”

“Could just read it and find out,” the younger Wolf muttered, but he sounded teasing rather than sour. Gentle amusement warmed his amber eyes, his lips quirked up on the unscarred side in the hint of a lopsided smirk.

Aubry snorted softly. “Suppose I will,” he replied, setting the book down on the arm of the chair. “Standing on ceremony for a reason?” he added with a raised eyebrow.

“Actually, I was sent to tell you supper’s ready.”

Something cold settled under Aubry’s ribs. He’d been kept alone in a twenty-by-twenty box for so many years that he’d lost count. The only human contact being when the mage carved into his back. Before Aiden, he’d almost forgotten what it was to have someone touch him without pain. And it had been so quiet. The bard hadn’t shut up for all the hours they’d worked together and he had a feeling it would just be worse over dinner. The thought of so many people, all that noise, even if it was his brothers—

“Not really that hungry,” he muttered, fingers riddling with the edges of the little red book. “But you go on.” The look Eskel gave him was narrowed and a little too knowing for Aubry’s comfort, but he didn’t say anything. He just bobbed his head in a loose nod and took himself back out of the library.

He set the book aside with a sigh after he caught himself reading the same sentence for the third time. He tracked the sunset as it painted an orange line across the stone walls, creeping lower and lower until it disappeared and evening settled over the Keep.

This time he heard the footsteps in the hall before the big Witcher slipped back into the library with a massive platter of food balanced in one hand, a couple bottles in the other. “Vesemir had a few words about your absence so now I’m in charge of making sure you eat,” Eskel rumbled. He hooked his foot around the leg of a small side table and dragged it in front of the fire, setting the platter down.

“This is—” Aubry fumbled, staring at the massive amount of food—lake fish with lemon, boiled potatoes, fresh baked bread, honeyed butter, candied fruit and sugared nuts. “You didn’t have to do this,” he protested.

Eskel snorted. “You’re right, I didn’t,” he replied as he sprawled gracefully into the other chair. “But would you go against Vesemir’s, ah, nonnegotiable request?”

Aubry huffed. “Your babysitting part of that request too?” he snarked.

“Naw, that’s just an added bonus.”

“What, like dessert?”

“Yep,” the younger man drawled, popping the ‘p’ sound sharply. “Sweet, and sticky, and goes straight to the ass.”

Aubry choked on nothing, watching as Eskel hide a smirk behind a bottle of ale. Mischief was swimming in the other Witcher’s eyes, but still a little cautious around the edges. Waiting to see how he would react. Reaching out a hand without forcing him to take it. Aubry snorted harshly, reaching forward to pull a piece of fish free from the skin. “Gimme that damn ale.”

______________________________

Aiden wasn’t sure how long he stood in front of that door. He could hear the soft rustling sounds of movement just on the other side, but he just couldn’t make himself take the two extra steps and put his hand on the door. He forced a long breath into tight lungs and slide the eyepatch over the ruined side of his face. One more deep breath. Then he rapped on the door with his knuckles.

“Fuck off,” came the muffled growl from the other side of the door. Aiden couldn’t help a breathy little chuckle. The door handle was cold to the touch as he slipped through the door, closing it softly behind him.

For all that this room was called a cellar, it was actually well lit and ventilated by the large barred windows along the far wall. An iron bellied stove sat against the far left wall, something bubbling in a pot on its top. Shelves raced around the entire room, filled with neatly labeled jars and pots of various ingredients. The far right wall held a bookshelf of finished potions and decoctions. The smell was an interesting mix of herbal notes and more pungent smells that belonged to the ingredients of the monstrous variety Witchers used in their potions.

Lambert stood with his back to the door in front of a large table, eviscerating something with a mortal and pestle. He was dressed down, his light linen shirt stained with sweat and rolled up passed his elbows. His dark hair was longer than Aiden remembered, damp and slicked back from his face. But it was him. The same shoulders, the same rough stubble covering the hint of jaw that could be seen. And the same growly voice.

“The fuck you want, Eskel?” the man grumbled, sounding more irritated than actually pissed off. It had taken Aiden almost a season to figure out the differences between all of the Wolf’s snarls. He opened his mouth and—

Nothing came out. He couldn’t get his throat to work. And what would he even say? It had been years, so many years that he’d been dead to the world. He would never begrudge his Wolf anything, if anything he’d hoped that the other Witcher had sought company elsewhere. But now that he was standing here, right here, what if he was too late? What if he was here but Lambert didn’t—at least not like that, not anymore. What would he do then?

“If you’re gonna be a fuckin’ nuisance, you can at least make yourself useful—” the Wolf huffed, finally turning around. They locked eyes. The stone bowl fell from Lambert’s fingers, cracking in half against the floor. Aiden blinked and then Lambert was an inch from his face, eyes blazing hot with fury. A hand grabbed tight to his wrist, pinning it painfully against the door. A small blade pressed tight against his throat. “What the fuck are you?” Lambert snarled.

This was the tone of snarl that Aiden had only heard a handful of times. The first time Aiden bloodraged in front of the other Witcher; when a Striga caught Aiden across the back with its claws and laid his ribs bare; after the first time they’d kissed, both of them soaking wet and up to their hips in drowner’s corpses. Lambert was fucking terrified.

“It’s me,” he managed to croak.

“Bullshit,” Lambert hissed. “You got a lotta fuckin’ nerve wearin’ his face.”

The blade pressed harder against his neck. Aiden could feel a little blood trickle down his neck and under his collar. “Is that silver?” he asked softly, reaching up with slow fingers.

He didn’t even come close to touching the Wolf Witcher. A harsh throaty growl was the only warning he had before a knee slammed up into his gut and he was thrown to the ground. A heavy weight settled across his hips as Lambert straddled him. One of Aiden’s wrists were trapped under the Wolf’s knee. A hand tangled in his hair and his head was wrenched back, baring his throat.

The knife point hovered over his eye, his only eye, glinting in the light. He could see Lambert’s face behind it, twisted with rage. He focused on that, instead of the knife that was poised and threatening. “Silver, Lambert,” he whispered, the fingers on his free hand twitching towards his bloody neck. “You cut me with silver.”

Confusion threaded through the rage, which quickly turned to disbelief, and then moved into something he’d never seen before. The weight disappeared from his hips as Lambert threw himself backwards. The knife went skittering as the dark haired Witcher scrambled away until he collided with a table leg. The entire thing shook from the impact, a couple of glass bottles tipping over and smashing.

Aiden sat up slowly, careful to keep his movements slow and easy to predict. He tried to think nonthreatening but he wasn’t sure if that was actually possible for men like them. Lambert had told him more than once that he moved like a wild cat on a hunt even when he was just walking into the woods to take a shit.

“Lambert—”

“No, no, you’re not real,” the Wolf muttered, shaking his head sharply. “Fuckin’ inhaled somethin’. Grindin’ banewort or…or…White Gull fumes from th’ Tawny Owl.”

Aiden licked his lips, trying to figure out the best way to reach the agitated Wolf. “You remember how we met?” he asked, shifting closer. “In Ellander, on that ogre contract? And the brute ended up finger-painting with your employer’s insides?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Lambert snarled. He grabbed one of the shards from the broken mortar and flung it. Aiden winced as it hit him dead in the chest and he froze. Lambert froze too. His eyes widened, unease and doubt flickering across his face. The doubt was encouraging so Aiden pressed the sliver of advantage.

“Or that kikimore contract we took outside Posada together,” he continued. “When you showed me your unique fishing techniques. I was picking bomb shrapnel out of my meal all evening.”

Lambert growled, scrubbing his hands harshly over his eyes. But he didn’t interrupt or throw anything this time, so Aiden accepted it as a small victory. “Or that drowner contract, you remember that one?” hepressed, deciding to risk moving a little closer. “We were told there were only half a dozen, but it turned out there were—”

“Fuckin’ thirty,” Lambert mumbled, staring at the stone slabs between his boots.

“That’s right,” Aiden replied, scooting himself an inch closer. “There we were, hopped up on potions, soaking wet and covered in muck and drowner guts. And you wouldn’t stop yelling at me because you knew I wouldn’t ask for more payment.” That contract had been incredibly frustrating. The fishmonger and his daughter barely had enough coin to put food on their table, let alone pay two Witchers for thirty drowner heads.

“You and your fuckin’ bleedin’ heart,” Lambert muttered darkly. “Always got us into trouble.”

“That’s what you said then too, standing waist deep in the middle of that lagoon. You were so pissed,” he said with a soft chuckle. If he stretched his arm out, he could almost touch Lambert’s knee. “And then I picked a piece of brain from your hair and you—I swear to the gods, I thought you were gonna punch me in the face. But you didn’t.” Another shift closer. “You just got this weird look in your eye and then you—”

“Don’t,” Lambert croaked. “Fuckin’ don’t. You’re dead. You’re dead, you can’t be here.”

“I’m here, Wolf,” Aiden said softly. “I promise you I’m here.”

“No, you can’t be. Don’t you get it?” Lambert cried, looking up at his with eyes like shattered glass. “You can’t be here, 'cause—‘cause if you are, then that—that means I didn’t fuckin’ find you.”

Gods above. And everyone thought that Geralt was the Wolf with the martyr complex. “Wasn’t your job to find me, Lambert,” he murmured, inching just a little bit closer. Another shift and he’d be within arms length.

“No, it was my job to watch your fuckin’ back. We promised each other that. And I wasn’t there. I fucked up,” Lambert spat, eyes glassy. His hands had moved to his knees, fingers digging into his breeches.

“Not your fault,” Aiden repeated painfully. Lambert just scoffed and went back to staring at his boots. He was less than a foot from the other man now, but he didn’t risk touching. Not yet. His fingers itched to but he settled for letting them fidget against the stiff leather of his boots. He wasn’t sure if there was anything he could say that wouldn’t come off as patronizing. But fuck, was he glad that Lambert hadn’t been there.

“Was that really you?” Lambert mumbled, head tucked almost all the way down to his chest. “In Oxenfurt, ‘bout a year ‘n a half ago. Was it you?”

“Yes,” Aiden confessed softly.

“Then why didn’t you—I know you saw me ’n you—you just ran. W-why would you do that?”

The Wolf’s voice was suspiciously thick and damp sounding. Aiden felt like he was swallowing thorns. Getting Lambert to talk about his childhood was like trying to get water from a rock, but Aiden had been able to get the broad strokes from the reluctant Wolf. Most if not all Witchers came from broken pasts, but Lambert’s was exceptionally awful. Even with his limited knowledge, Aiden knew the man had some serious abandonment issues.

“It’s a long story,” Aiden rasped.

“Then fuckin’ start talkin’,” growled Lambert, still refusing to meet his eye.

So Aiden did.

He told him about the contract that had sucked him into yet another political mess, but this time he wasn’t able to get himself out of it. He talked about being jumped by Karadin, about waking up strapped to a table. He told him about the painful depraved things the mage had done to him. He told him about every time he carved into his skin just to see what lay underneath. He talked about Aubry, and every time the man literally held Aiden’s sanity together with his bare hands.

He told him about the forced bloodrages, how the decoctions exploited the weaknesses in his School’s mutagens and stripped him of the careful control he’d spent years perfecting. He talked until his throat dried up and he was swallowing sand. He talked until the words ran out and he couldn’t find anymore. He kept the details about the forced assassinations and the arena to himself. He wasn’t quite ready to strip himself that bare yet.

His eyes had found his own boots while he’d been talking, so he didn’t see Lambert’s hand moving until he felt fingers brush the edge of his jaw, just below the eyepatch. He flinched hard, his hands halfway up to shove away the threat before stalling out. His eye focused somewhere around Lambert’s clavicle, remembering where he was and who he was with.The hand returned, slightly tracing up the side of his neck and back over his jaw. The patch that covered his eye started to lift from his face. His hand was wrapped around Lambert’s wrist before he knew he’d moved. He could feel the heat from the other man’s skin, the tension wound tight in his forearm muscles. And Lambert didn’t move. He just waited.

Slowly, finger by finger, Aiden managed to loosen his hand. The silk cloth peeled back from his skin and he let go of Lambert’s wrist when he felt it pull against his grip. It was quiet save for the soft crackling of the fires and the wind whistling through cracks in the walls and his own harsh breathing. Yet Aiden had never felt more exposed than he did now. Fingers bushed against Aiden’s cheekbone and he couldn’t help but flinch again. It was disconcerting to have things come at him on his blind side. The touch was featherlight as it traced up and over his orbital bone, around the ruined socket and then down the bridge of his nose. Lambert’s hand settled against his cheek, and Aiden found his face being tilted up, forcing his gaze to lift along with it.

Gods, he loved it when Lambert looked at him like this—no furrow pulling his brows down in the middle, no half scowl which seemed to be a semi permanent fixture on the Wolf’s face. The lines at the corner of his eyes and mouth were smooth. His face held none of the resentment or anger that had been built up over the decades. He was soft and gentle and looking at Aiden like he was something precious.Lambert’s thumb brushed the soft skin underneath where his eye should be and Aiden couldn’t help the shiver that wracked down his spine. His Wolf leaned in and pressed their foreheads together but Aiden wasn’t satisfied with that, so he grabbed Lambert’s face in both hands and dragged him into a bruising kiss.

It was messy and desperate and perfect. A hand threaded through his curls as Lambert deepened the kiss and Aiden returned it hungrily. He felt his canines slice into Lambert’s bottom lip, tasting copper on his tongue, but neither of them cared or pulled away. A broken sound ripped from someone’s throat and Aiden honestly couldn’t tell who. He didn’t even realize he was crying until salt mingled with the kiss and Lambert was tracing up his cheek, licking the salt from his skin.

He whined softly, tucking his face against the side of his Wolf’s neck. He shoved his nose up against his pulse point and breathed deep, surrounding himself with the man’s scent—so familiar and comforting and right in front of him, so alive and so real.The hand in his hair tightened. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, gripping tight. Lips pressed against the sensitive skin underneath his ear.

“You’re here,” Lambert mumbled into his shoulder. “You’re really here.”

Aiden’s only answer was to wrap his own arms around Lambert’s barrel of a chest and cradle him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the positive feedback in the comments is so heartwarming, thank you so much! I'm glad you are all enjoying reading this :)
> 
> The Juniper Tree and The White Snake are both Brothers Grimm fables.


	7. Chapter 7

A loud banging startled Aiden from the best sleep he could remember having in years. He woke warm and comfortable, curled on his side and smothered in furs. The restricting steel band that was strapped around his chest was a little worrying but he was on his side. He never got strapped down on his side.

The banging happened again and the restraints tightened with a growl; a sound that vibrated through his back but didn’t come from his own throat. Weird. “Fuck off, Eskel,” a gruff voice growled behind his ear.

“You missed breakfast,” an even gruffer voice called through the door. “Vesemir says you have ten minutes to get yourself to the training yard or he’ll set you both running The Killer for the rest of the morning.” Footsteps echoed down the hallway, signalling the other Witcher’s retreat.

Aiden glanced down, seeing the large hand that definitely wasn’t his splayed over his heart, right over the scar that marred the middle of his chest. He brushed fingers up the muscular forearm, feeling the soft dark hairs tickle against his palm. “Lambert?” he murmured.

A rough grunt breathed hot against the back of his neck but that wasn’t enough reassurance for Aiden’s liking. He squirmed, struggling against the arms wrapped around him. Lambert grunted again, sounding displeased, but didn’t stop him from rolling over to put them nose to nose. Sleepy golden eyes blinked owlishly up at him and Aiden couldn’t stop himself from smoothing away the furrow between those dark brows with his thumb. “It’s you,” he murmured. “It’s really you.”

“I should fuckin’ hope so,” the Wolf mumbled, pulling the slimmer man closer. Aiden ended up with Lambert’s head tucked up under his chin as the younger man snuffled softly against his collarbone. Lips traced up the side of his neck, scruff scraping along his jawbone as Lambert made his way up the side of Aiden’s face. The contended purr that thrummed in his chest ended in a twisted choke as the Wolf started up over the scars that ruined his right eye.

“Shhh,” murmured the Wolf. “I gotcha, wildcat.”

Now it was Aiden’s turn to hide his face against Lambert’s clavicle, feeling all sorts of feelings flushing hot under his skin at that nickname. He hadn’t heard that nickname in so long. He took a shaky breath, letting himself linger in the safety of the Wolf’s scent. As tempting as it was to just close his eye and drift, he had a feeling that Vesemir wasn’t the kind of man to make empty threats. He wasn’t sure what ‘The Killer’ was, but he figured it wouldn’t be pleasant.

Lambert huffed petulantly when he pointed it out. “You’re not wrong,” he grumbled, forcing himself to roll out of the Cat’s arms. He padded over to the wardrobe, giving Aiden an eyeful of his considerable, ahem, assets. He stretched lazily as he watched the Wolf dress, pulling on tight leather pants and a thick padded gambeson.

“Here,” the man said gruffly, tossing clothing at Aiden’s face. “These should fit your skinny ass.”

Aiden fingered the fur lined vest and thick cotton shirt, leather pants and wool socks. Even a set of braies. He picked those up, twirling them around his forefinger as he raised an eyebrow in Lambert’s direction. “These yours?” he smirked.

Lambert ducked his head, a strange noise choking from the back of his throat. “Just get fuckin’ dressed,” he growled. Aiden chuckled and did as he was told. The pants were a little loose around the thighs and hips, the shirt too large across the shoulders but nothing that a wide belt and some tucking couldn’t solve. He made it to the vest buckles before stalled out.

It felt good to wear his medallion again. Lambert had given it back to him the night before, practically reducing the Cat to tears when he’d pulled it off from around his own neck. Aiden had long ago written off ever getting it back. The weight against the back of his neck, metal long since warmed to skin temperature, was comforting. But the idea of having it on display felt wrong. It had made getting contracts easier, before. It made staying in inns instead of sleeping on the side of the road easier. He’d spent most of his adult life with his medallion tucked under his clothes, his School’s reputation shaming him into hiding it.

“You don’t have to hide it, if you don’t want,” Lambert’s gruff voice startled Aiden out of his internal dilemma. He glanced up, finding the Witcher standing fully dressed before him, the straps of his swords slung over his shoulder. “Not here, anyways. Everyone knows who you are,” the Wolf added, shifting his weight unconsciously.

Aiden nodded silently but he still buckled the vest up over the medallion, trapping it under the bands of leather and fur. He saw Lambert sigh out the corner of his eye, but he ignored it in favour of shoving his feet into the boots Aubry had given him the day before. Fuck, everything was borrowed. He owned nothing but his skin, and he wasn’t even sure if that really belonged to him anymore. Not after everything that had happened.

A pair of strong legs stepped between his thighs, preventing him from standing. He glanced up, curls flopping over his remaining eye. Lambert loomed above him, looking down at him with the strangest expression on his face. As much as Aiden wanted to make a lewd joke, especially given that Lambert’s leather clad crotch was only a few inches from his chin, but that look stopped him. “Got something on my face?” he said instead.

“Not yet,” the man rumbled. Aiden raised an eyebrow and Lambert’s neck flushed scarlet so he clearly hadn’t meant it as a bad innuendo. His fingers fumbled around the eyepatch as he he held it stiffly. “But only if you want,” he muttered.

Aiden looked at it. He kind of hated it, but he had to admit he did feel more comfortable wearing it around the others. “You waiting for permission or something?” he asked. Lambert just stood there, so clearly he was. Aiden nodded slowly, feeling his fingers flexing against his knees.

Lambert’s hands were gentle as they settled the patch firmly over his eye and cheek, untucking his curls out from where they got trapped again his eyebrow. He loved it when Lambert gentle with him because he knew it was a side of the otherwise surly man that only he got to see. Perhaps his brothers got to see glimpses, but Aiden knew he was the only one Lambert was completely vulnerable with, even if it never lasted long.

Aiden felt fingers brush lightly against the side of his neck before the touch disappeared completely. “We should hurry,” Lambert said gruffly, the back of his neck flushed a light pink as he turned away.

“Don’t suppose you found my swords with the medallion?” Aiden asked without much hope as he followed Lambert out into the hallway.

“No.”

“Fuck,” Aiden grumbled.

The warm and fuzzy feelings from the unexpected tender moment died quickly. He’d loved his swords, had put a lot of care into them over the years. Witcher’s lived and died by their skills and by their blades so to lose them or have them stolen was a painful blow. And good quality steel wasn’t cheap, let alone trying to find someone to forge a silver blade. He didn’t even have two coins to rub together, and without weapons he couldn’t take contracts to earn any. Fuck, he hated feeling like a charity case.

“We have an armoury. I’m sure Vesemir will let you take your pick,” the Wolf replied, sounding legitimately upset on Aiden’s behalf. Aiden hummed in a noncommittal way, not really enthused by picking over a stack of training leftovers. Didn’t help with the whole feeling like a charity case either. But it was better than the alternative of being unarmed when he was kicked down the mountain as soon as the snow melted.

The training yard was a large courtyard with crumbling covered walkways skirting around three of the sides. The fourth was the outer wall, soaring high above their heads with a narrow staircase leading up to a turret that was missing half its inner wall. The ground had been swept clean, the snow left in large piles abound the perimeter.

They arrived just in time to see Vesemir give a gobsmacked looking Aubry a beautifully crafted sword, with a wolf carved delicately into the pommel nut. Through the emotional ramblings from the dark haired Witcher and the far more controlled replies from the older man, Aiden could piece together that this had been the Witcher’s sword before he’d been taken. While he was certainly happy for the man, Aiden couldn’t help the little thrum of jealousy. It was a really nice fucking sword.

Vesemir’s eyes had flicked to him and Lambert the second they’d set foot in the yard. “I’m taking the Cat to the armoury,” he announced. “Start with stretches and warmup drills.” The Witcher then turned back towards the Keep and started walking, clearly expecting Aiden to follow. Lambert clapped a hand to Aiden’s shoulder, the touch lingering as he reluctantly walked over to join his brothers and, to Aiden’s surprise, the bard. Aubry caught his eye as he passed, giving him an encouraging smile.

Aiden had to trot to catch up to the sword master, and then silently fell into step with the shorter man. “I assume you train _Addan Aenye_ ,” the old Wolf rumbled as he led the Cat through a maze of wide stone hallways.

“Yessir,” Aiden replied respectfully. Almost all Cats trained the Fiery Dancer, prioritizing speed and agility in their fighting over strength and brute force. They whittled down their opponents, aiming to land shallow blows in rapid succession.

“You’ve the build for it,” Vesemir mused. “Two-handed?”

“I liked training two-handed, but Signs are too useful to tie up my other hand on the Path,” he replied. “Sir,” he tacked on hurriedly. 

“No sirs here, lad,” the old swords master told him. “It’s just Vesemir.”

“Yessir,” Aiden replied, just to be contrary.

The side-eye Vesemir levelled him was equal parts stern reprimand and smothered amusement, and Aiden was so surprised by the amount of the latter that he didn’t realize they’d reached the armoury until he was standing in the middle of it.

“Right, training swords,” Vesemir muttered as he stalked across the room to one of the many racks that held a large variety of swords. He snatched one down, twirling it around to hand it over over hilt first. “Try this.” Aiden took it, stepped back, and rolled his wrist to spin the blade around himself in lazy circles.

“’S fine,” he said.

“Just ‘fine’?” Vesemir drawled, pinning him with a raised eyebrow. Aiden hesitated. The balance wasn’t quite right for his style. The blade had too much heft and the hilt felt a little unwieldily in his hand, but he wasn’t going to complain. It was a sword. He’d adapt. Vesemir sighed when he just shrugged and waved a hand vaguely at the room. “No one else is lining up to use them, lad. Be honest.”

Aiden twirled the blade again. “Balance is off,” he admitted.

“Thought so,” Vesemir replied, taking the sword back and handing him another. Aiden barely had it in his hand before the older man was shaking his head. “Too heavy,” he rumbled and Aiden nodded, his respect for the sword master going up another notch.

They went through two more blades before they found one that satisfied both Aiden and Vesemir. “You’re in luck,” the swords master commented as they strode back towards the training ground. “Geralt and Lambert mostly train the _Temerian Devil,_ but both Eskel and Aubry heavily lean towards your chosen style. As important as it is to train against different methods, I know it’s comforting to have others who fight like you do.”

Aiden perked up at that. It was intriguing to learn that not one but two of the tall broad Wolf Witchers leaned towards the more agile style favoured by the slimmer Cats, and he was excited to finally be able to see Aubry fight.

“Any lingering injuries I should be aware of?” Vesemir was asking as they crossed the wide hall towards the door that lead out into the yard. Aiden just pointed to the dark patch that covered the right side of his face. “How have you found compensating for the change in depth perception?”

“Not knocking things over when I reach for them anymore,” Aiden replied drolly.

“Step in the right direction,” Vesemir drawled as they stepped out into the training yard. The Wolves and the bard seemed to be just finishing up a series of slow warm up drills. The bard was sweating a bit already but the exertion hadn’t begun to show on the Witchers yet.

“Pair up. Drills one through six,” Vesemir barked. “Geralt with Aubry, Eskel with Aiden. Lambert, go easy on the bard.” The youngest Wolf grumbled about the pairings and Vesemir’s gaze narrowed onto the young Witcher immediately. “Bit early for your first strike, pup,” he rumbled. Lambert scowled but clamped his mouth shut.

Eskel gave Aiden an easy nod as he stepped in front of him, rolling his wrists one at a time and cracking his neck. “Strike?” he asked curiously.

Eskel grinned, the scars that immobilized the right side of his lips twisting the smile lopsided. “You get one warning for unbecoming behaviour on the training grounds,” the taller man explained. “Second strike and you have to run the walls. Third strike and you’re running The Killer.”

Aiden didn’t have time to ask exactly what ‘The Killer’ was, or even if he wanted to know, before Vesemir was striding past them. “Go easy for the drills. He’s not warmed up,” Vesemir told Eskel before stepping back to where he had a good view of all of the fighters.

Eskel certainly was going easy on him, which at first infuriated him but he quickly became grateful for it. His muscles moved and reacted on memory and hard trained instincts but he hadn’t properly trained in over six years. He could feel himself fatiguing far faster than he should be. There was a few close calls as Aiden adapted to the change in vision, but he was nothing if not adaptable. By the time they’d worked through all the drills, blows clashing in a dance that was clearly well rehearsed for Eskel, Aiden could feel his shirt sticking to his skin and he was wiping sweat from his brow.

“Hold,” Vesemir called out and Eskel disengaged from Aiden with a lazy twirl of his blade. “Freestyle, no Signs. Lambert—”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t break the bard, I got it,” the Wolf grumbled. The bard in question just grinned savagely and settled himself into a well balanced stance, his eyes sharp as they stared the Witcher down.

“Begin,” Vesemir ordered.

Aiden turned his focus back to his own opponent. Eskel had advantage on weight and reach and was just a little taller, but Aiden had spent his life fighting things bigger and heavier than him. He took a breath, settling into his body. It felt good to have a sword in his hand again. The prospect of a good sparring partner was a thrill. Sure, he and Lambert used to spar, but that usually derailed into a different kind of sparring rather quickly.

It was a good thing he still had Vesemir’s comments about the Wolves fighting styles in his head because holy fuck, Eskel was fast. Such a mountain of a man shouldn’t be capable of being so agilely but when he attacked, Aiden barely reacted in time. The practice swords were dulled so they wouldn’t cut but they would still leave impressive bruises if they connected.

Eskel’s blade sliced towards his ribs. Instead of meeting the blow head on, Aiden used the bigger man’s momentum against him, knocking his sword up and then diving underneath it in a controlled tumble. He came up onto his feet smoothly behind the Wolf, only to find Eskel’s blade already slicing towards his shoulder.

A flurry of blows followed. He could see now how Eskel had melded the two fighting styles together. His blows packed a tremendous amount of power, different from Aiden who sliced towards vulnerabilities like the back of knees and under the armpits. But a large part of the power behind the blows didn’t come from just brute muscle strength but from the speed with which Eskel threw them.

“Lambert, Aubry, eyes on your own fights,” Vesemir’s voice cracked across the yard. Both Eskel and Aiden risked a glance down the line. Aiden could see the dark blush rising Lambert’s neck as his lips curled in a growl aimed at a very amused looking bard. Aubry didn’t look very cowed by the reprimand, eyes bright as they deliberately met Eskel’s gaze before turning back to his fight. Aiden watched as Eskel’s ears flushed a little pink. Interesting.

The fights only lasted a few more minutes before Vesemir ordered them to trade partners. This time they were using Signs, so the bard sat out and Vesemir took his place, partnering himself with Eskel. Aiden found himself facing off against Geralt and if he’d thought Eskel hit hard, he was a delicate breeze next to Geralt’s hurricane. His Aard packed just as much of a punch and took Aiden full off his feet when he didn’t get his Quen up in time.

When Vesemir called it again, Aiden hair was plastered to his forehead and his shirt was completely slick to his skin. His shoulders ached from the Wolf’s powerful blows, his arms and legs trembled with exertion. He gave up trying to lock his knees and just sprawled out on his back, staring up at the overcast grey sky. He hadn’t felt this out of shape since, well, ever. Maybe after that griffon contract when it turned out to be a mated pair.

“Geralt and Eskel, finish insulating the stables,” Vesemir ordered. “Lambert, finish the decoctions you didn’t yesterday. Aubry and Aiden, run the Killer.”

“You can’t be serious,” Aubry panted and Aiden was encouraged to see that the man looked just as sweaty and exhausted as he felt. Maybe even worse. The Wolf’s hair hung in damp strands around his face and he seemed painfully out of breath.

“Your stamina has gone to shit,” Vesemir stated sternly, looking across to Aiden like he was making sure the Cat was being included in the scolding. “Your technics are sloppy and your Signs are weak. Now, it’s understandable,” he said, raising a placating hand as Aubry opened his mouth to protest. Aiden could feel an uneasy feeling bubbling in his own chest. It wasn’t like he’d spent the last six years on fucking vacation. “It’s understandable and certainly not either of your faults, but it is a problem that needs to be fixed.”

Aiden could see Aubry’s jaw muscles jumping but he ducked his head, nodded against Vesemir’s steady gaze. “Go on. The faster you run, the quicker you return,” the sword master drawled as he turned back towards the Keep.

A shadow passed over his face and he accepted Lambert’s offered hand. “Have fun and ‘member to pace your breathin’,” Lambert drawled.

“Aww, not gonna join us for moral support?”

“Fuck no. I’m not a masochist,” Lambert said with a harsh snort.

“Coulda fooled me,” Aiden drawled with enough of a purr in his voice to make the younger Witcher blush. Lambert’s neck flushed, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for a retort but just settled on growling instead.

“Come on, Cat. You heard the old man,” Aubry sighed.

They were both soaked to the bone and severely out of breath by the time they finally stumbled back into the Keep. Aiden was just proud he hadn’t puked his guts out. Aubry wasn’t so lucky and had purged just as they got to the highest elevation of the run. He looked worse than Aiden, which was understandable considering how much longer he’d been kept captive.

Vesemir was waiting for them in the main entranceway, arms crossed over his chest. “Disgraceful,” the Witcher drawled. “Absolutely pitiful performance. Even the bard could do better. You’re running it every morning after training as long as the weather holds.”

“Told you,” Aubry muttered under his breath.

“Go wash up, soak your muscles,” the man ordered before heading towards the kitchen. Aiden frowned, noticing a tension in Aubry’s shoulders. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but the man was already heading into the Keep, leaving Aiden to play catchup with a Wolf for the third time that morning.

The hot springs were incredible and Aiden felt his jaw dropping open as Aubry pushed the door open. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this cavernous room with the massive steaming pool had not been it. Aubry was utilitarian as his stripped out of his clothes, grabbed a bar of soap at random, and stalked over to the small waterfall that cascaded down the rocky wall in the corner. He rinsed swiftly, keeping his back angled away from Aiden. No, angled away from the door. So that’s what was going on.

Aiden took his time, carefully folding first his clothes and then Aubry’s, placing both neatly into the cubbies carved into the wall itself. He mimicked Aubry, washing the sweat and grim away under the falling water before slipping into the pool. The water was hot and felt like liquid heaven against his aching muscles. “Fuck the gods, this is glorious,” he groaned as he sunk down onto the narrow bench seat that wrapped around the outside of the pool. The water came up to his clavicles when he was fully seated.

“Yeah,” Aubry murmured, eyes closed as he leaned his head back against the ledge of the pool. Aiden let himself stretch out, limbs like a starfish as he floated on his back. The pool was big enough for him to do so and still not even come close to bumping into the other Witcher.

“So what happened to Eskel’s face?” Aiden asked out of the blue.

He couldn’t see Aubry’s face, his eyes were still staring at the ceiling, but he felt the ripples across the surface of the water as the bigger man startled at the question. “Don’t know. He didn’t have the scars when I knew him,” Aubry replied stiffly.

“What, you haven’t asked him about it yet?” Aiden asked.

“The fuck, Aiden.”

“I’m just saying. I mean it’s probably a really fucked up story. And I’m sure it was a shock to see him like that, so why you haven’t said anything about it yet is quite baffling—”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve if you…I know what you’re doing.” The building anger disappeared from the man’s voice like it had never been there, giving way to something that sounded so very tired and resigned.

“Do you?” Aiden said, curling out of his float to properly face the other Witcher. Aubry fidgeted under his scrutiny. He had one hand on his shoulder, over what Aiden knew was the top most of the scars that covered the majority of his back, creating the motif of a massive wolf’s head.

“That's different,” he muttered.

“Bullshit,” Aiden drawled.

“No, it’s not,” Aubry growled. He gestured angrily, sending little waves sloshing across the water to slap against Aiden’s chest. “I didn’t get these on the Path. I got them strapped to a table too fucking weak to fight back.”

“Monsters come in all shapes and sizes, Wolf,” Aiden sighed.

“Funny, _he_ said the same thing,” Aubry snarled, standing abruptly in a tidal wave of water.

“Aubry,” he tried but the man was already across the room and pulling on his shirt over wet scarred skin. “Come on, Wolf—”

“I’m fine,” Aubry snarled. Then he sighed, buttoning his pants. “I’m fine, Cat,” he added softly. “I’ll be fine. Just need some space.” Aiden watched the big Witcher retreat, nearly shoulder checking Lambert into the wall as they passed in the doorway.

“The fuck is his problem?” the younger man grumbled as he toed off his boots.

“Fuck,” Aiden muttered under his breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Fuck,” he spat, and slammed his fist onto the side of the rock. The water rippled harshly as pain radiated up his knuckles but it only helped to rile him up further. “Fuck,” he snarled for a third time, punching the stone again.

He felt the water levels around him shift drastically and then hands were wrapped tightly around his wrists from behind. He thrashed, fighting as his hands were pinned against his own chest. “Settle down, stupid,” Lambert grunted, tightening his arms around the squirming Cat.

“Fuck off,” Aiden snarled, trying to use his feet to gain leverage to break the man’s hold. He was yanked sideways once Lambert figured out what he was doing, and now his feet were kicking out against nothing but water. The arms continued to tighten their hold until Aiden’s next snarl came out as an embarrassing squeak.

Slowly, the panicky fluttering in his chest began to die away and eventually he slumped bonelessly back against Lambert’s chest. He nearly went under he relaxed so suddenly. He heard Lambert curse, and a hand wrapped under his chin to keep it above water. He was manhandled about until he was sitting between the Wolf’s legs on the bench. Now Aiden was the one clutching at Lambert, stopping the Wolf from loosening his hold.

“Don’t hold you, hold you. Wanna make up your mind here?” Lambert grumbled, but it didn’t stop him from doing exactly what Aiden wanted. Arms wrapped around his waist, no longer a vice grip but cradling. Two fingers between his brows pushed his head back to be pillowed by the Wolf’s shoulder.

He could feel Lambert’s breath brushing against the side of his cheek, could feel fingers carefully tracing the edges of the scar that bisected his sternum. He could feel his body trembling, sending little shivers out across the surface of the water.

This wasn’t the first time they’d been here. It wasn’t the first time Aiden had found himself wrapped up in Lambert’s arms, fighting the anxiety or rage bubbling up inside him. The first time he’d lost control, Lambert had to bodycheck him into the dirt to stop him from storming back into town. He couldn’t even remember what had pissed him off so much anymore.

The rages didn’t happen often. He had a better handle on those, knew how to squash the anger back down beneath his skin but the anxiety…that was something else. That crept up on him, making him sour and irritable, making his hands shake and his breath hitch until he was spiralling down a dark well with no way out. He used to bite the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, clamping down until the pain cleared his head. He actually had tiny scars there from his canines. Then he’d started travelling with Lambert, who had been frankly horrified with Aiden’s coping methods.

The next time he’d started to spiral, Lambert had grabbed him, tucked Aiden’s head under his chin, and just held on. Aiden had nearly cracked the man’s ribs trying to make him let go, because being held like that just made everything much worse. But then it had gotten better and when it did, all Aiden had the energy for was to sob into Lambert’s chest. And gods, his Wolf had no idea what to do with that, but he’d held him through it and he hadn’t let go.

“‘M Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Not the first time you’ve gone a little feral on me,” Lambert drawled.

“Won’t be the last,” Aiden muttered darkly.

“Shut up with that shit,” the Wolf growled in his ear, yanking him back above the darkness just as he’d held Aiden’s chin above water.

“I—I’m sorry.”

“You forget to clean your ears or somethin’? I just said—"

“No,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry I took the contract. You warned me about it, you told me it was a bad idea, but I didn’t listen. I never listen and look what happened. I should’ve listened. None of this would have happened if I’d just fucking listened.”

Lambert had gone very still behind him as he rambled. “When have you ever listened to me,” the younger man rumbled roughly. “But they all paid for what they did ’n…'n you’re here now, so nothin’ else matters.”

“All?” Aiden breathed. He twisted until he could look back at Lambert with wide eyes. “What do you mean ‘all’?”

Lambert’s face and chest was flushed rosy but that could have just been from the steam from the springs. He licked his lips uneasily but his gaze was steady. “I killed them,” he said simply. “Anyone who had anything to do with your death. I tracked them down and I killed them. Geralt helped a little, towards the end. He helped me find Karadin.”

“Karadin’s dead?” Aiden whispered.

“Yes,” Lambert growled.

“And you killed him?”

Lambert huffed, shifting nervously. “What, don’t tell me you’re mad about it or somethin’,” he muttered, shoulders tense and arms rigid where they were still wrapped around Aiden’s waist.

“No, no, it’s just—” Aiden breathed. He reached up a hand to settle against Lambert’s cheek, feeling the man’s rough stubble against his palm. Topaz eyes flicked up to meet his, looking so uncertain. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

Lambert huffed in amusement. “That’s pretty fucked up,” he drawled.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, little Lamb,” Aiden replied. “But we’re both a little unhinged.”

“We’re Witchers. And don’t fuckin’ call me that,” Lambert grumbled as if it explained everything. Colour that hadn’t been there before flushed his cheeks, much to Aiden’s amusement, and he smirked.

“Make me,” he purred.

______________________________

Eskel huffed, letting his hand fall from the door that lead to the hot springs. It took a lot to resist the urge to bang his head against it, hard, but somehow he managed. He was sweaty, having spent the afternoon re-insulating the stables against the coming winter storms and all he’d wanted was a proper wash and a soak. Looks like he wasn’t getting either of those things any time soon.

“I wouldn’t,” he growled he passed Geralt and Jaskier in the hall. “Not unless you wanna be scarred for life,” he added with a shudder. He now knew exactly what his little brother smelled like when aroused and sweet Melitele, he wished he could stick a branding iron in his brain and burn that information out.

“Wait, but who…oh,” Jaskier trailed off as his eyes went wide. Then he smirked. Geralt just sent a mildly pained look towards the door. “You mean we could have been fucking in the hot springs this whole time and you didn’t tell me?” Jaskier scolded, smacking his hand against Geralt’s chest, prompting an eye roll from the tall Witcher.

“Do not encourage this,” Eskel said sternly, shaking a finger towards the bard. “The hot springs are a communal space and not to be sullied like that.”

“Too late, apparently,” the bard drawled.

“Geralt, control your bard.”

“Yes Geralt, control your bard,” Jaskier parroted.

“Do not put me in the middle of this,” the white haired man grumbled, crossing his arms over his wide chest.

Eskel left them to their bantering and skipped up the stairs back to his room. He frowned at the puddles dotting the way, leading to the room beside his. The room that Aubry had stayed in once Aiden moved into Lambert’s room one floor up. He hesitated, but headed into his own room.

He had a pitcher of water and a wide porcelain bowl he could use to at least wash the sweat from his neck and underarms. He scrubbed wet hands through his hair, retying it back into a low tail. He changed into comfortable breeches and a thick padded jacket. The bard had been absolutely horrified to find out that the Witchers all usually wore their armour around the Keep. He’d slowly won them all over into wearing more comfortable clothes in the evenings, even Vesemir.

He could hear the soft rustling nosies from the other man through their shared wall, the soft echo of a slow heartbeat. Slowly, the rustling stopped. The heartbeat, slow to begin with, slowed even further. Aubry must be meditating.

He spent the rest of the afternoon doing whatever minor chores Vesemir had for him around the Keep. They were firmly into the first month of the winter, so most things had been already squared away. He helped Vesemir preparing dinner, gave Lambert and Aiden a stern lecture when they finally resurfaced, a lecture that Lambert blushed and growled through and Aiden took in stride with nothing but a lecherous smirk.

Aubry reappeared for dinner as well, a little quieter than usual but he still participated in the raucous banter that always ruled the dining hall during meals. Vesemir announced that they had concluded all of the large scale repairs necessary for the winter and after dinner, they all ended up sprawled around the fire in the library, intent on drinking themselves silly.

Vesemir claimed his usual armchair beside the fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand. Geralt and Eskel wrestled one of the large couches from the other side of the library and at a haphazard angle between Vesemir’s chair and a wide cushioned love seat. Lambert and Aiden had claimed that, sitting side by side as they raced each other towards a hangover.

Eskel folded himself into the sliver of space left on the couch, shoving Jaskier’s boots out of the way. The bard just smirked, kicked them off, and then planted his socked feet in Eskel’s lap. That left the other armchair across from Vesemir for Aubry, who folded his long body into it like a cat curling up by the hearth, a glass of pepper vodka hanging from his long fingers.

There were soft murmurs of multiple conversations, broken up by Jaskier catching himself humming and then sighing remorsefully. The sixth time it happened, Vesemir put his glass down with enough force that it halted all other conversations happening. Six pairs of eyes tracked the older Witcher as he strode out of the library without an explanation. “The fuck, Buttercup?” Lambert growled, glaring across at the bard.

“What did I do?” Jaskier squeaked in protest. 

“You, with all the sighin’ and the mopin’. Enough to drive anyone up the fuckin’ wall,” the youngest Wolf muttered, only slurring a little as he leaned across Aiden’s lap to get his glaring eyes closer to the bard.

“Well, excu-u-use me for mourning the loss of a truly magnificent instrument,” Jaskier scowled. “Filavandrel gave me that lute. Fantastic craftsmanship, let me tell you. Gosh, that was a while ago now, wasn’t it Geralt?”

“What happened to it?” Eskel found himself asking. Considering the man protected that instrument with more fervour than some mothers protected their children, there had to be a good explanation there.

Across their haphazard little circle, he saw Aubry shrink into himself, just a little. Like he was trying to make himself smaller which, given how broad his shoulders were, wasn’t really possible. Eskel blinked. Since when had he been noticing how broad the other Wolf’s shoulders were? Well, if he was being honest with himself, since that first night when he’d brought that tray of soup up to his room. Not that he was looking then. Or now. Gods, was he really that drunk already?

“She came to a valiant end,” Jaskier was saying, recounting how he’d smashed it across the back of his employer’s head upon finding out that he was actually the mage who had been keeping Aubry and Aiden in captivity.

“Wait, really?” Aiden slurred. He leaned forward eagerly, planting his elbows into Lambert’s shoulder blades and flattening the young Wolf across his lap. “You killed the mage? I thought you said you killed the mage?” He squinted over at Aubry, ignoring Lambert’s indignant protests from still being pinned flat.

“I did kill the mage,” Aubry said stiffly, dragging his eyes up from his vodka. His face was carefully shuttered but Eskel could tell the man was uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “The bard helped. Guess I never thanked you for that,” he added.

Jaskier flapped a hand towards the other man in a shooing motion. “No thanks necessary. Happy to lend a hand,” he said, slightly too loud for how close they were all sitting to each other. “Or a lute,” he added, giggled, and then hiccuped.

Eskel snorted, patting a hand against Jaskier’s ankle. “I think you’re drunk, bard.”

Jaskier gasped dramatically, clapping his hands to his cheeks which her flushed from the alcohol. “You know, I think I am too,” he exclaimed, then collapsed into another fit of giggles.

“Not too drunk to entertain, I hope,” a deep voice rumbled as Vesemir stepped back into the firelight with a lute of all things held in his hands. Jaskier was up off the couch in a burst of ill coordinated limbs. Eskel nearly got a foot to the chin and Geralt grunted as one of the bard’s pointy elbows caught him in the gut.

“Never too drunk to entertain. Oh Vesemir, she is a beauty,” Jaskier murmured as he ran his hands lovingly over the warm honey coloured wood, brushed his fingers against the strings carefully. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you played?”

“I don’t,” Vesemir replied as he returned to his seat by the fire. Jaskier made a questioning noise as he continued to look the instrument over. He nudged Geralt over so he could perch on the arm of the couch and place his feet on the cushions. A few sour notes rang out, making everyone wince. Slowly, Jaskier’s nimble fingers tweaked and fiddled, coaxing and cajoling until the lute rang sweetly once again.

“It belonged to Rennes, didn’t it?” Aubry asked softly and the air in the room suddenly turned heavy.

“It did,” Vesemir replied.

Eskel felt his stomach swoop uncomfortably. Lambert muttered a soft curse and planted a hand against Aiden’s face, shoving the Cat to the side so he could sit up properly. Geralt went quiet but Eskel could hear the stuttering tempo of his heart. The loss of the head of their School was still bitter, even after all these long years. Jaskier froze, fingers hovering over the strings as his eyes flicked around the room uncertainly.

“Go on, lad,” Vesemir urged gently. “It’s been sitting around gathering dust for decades. It’ll be good to hear it played again.”

“Just not the fuckin’ coin song,” Lambert grumbled.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” drawled Aiden.

“Oh, yes it is,” Eskel muttered.

“Actually,” Jaskier said, clearing his throat nervously. “I, ahh, I’ve been working on a new piece. Something inspired by, well, you.” His eyes flicked from Witcher to Witcher, holding everyone’s gaze briefly, even including Aiden and Aubry though he only met them a few days ago. “By all of you,” he continued softly. “I haven’t performed it anywhere yet. I—I wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

Jaskier ducked his head and began to play. The first few notes rang true in a gentle cascading trill, the bard’s fingers flying easily over the strings. There was a pause, a breath for everything fell silent. And then the bard began to sing.

_“No time for rest_

_No pillow for my head_

_Nowhere to run from this_

_No way to forget_

_Around, the shadows creep_

_Like friends, they cover me_

_Just wanna lay me down and finally_

_Try to get some sleep_

_We carry on through the storm_

_Tired soldiers in this war_

_Remember what we’re fighting for.”_

Jaskier’s voice was soft, yet seemed to fill every corner of the room. He sang gently, as if each word was something sacred and worthy of protection. Like a lullaby, soothing and careful for all the pain that rang through it all. A true Witcher’s lullaby.

There was no sound but the bard’s voice. He held rapt attention from every Witcher in the room. Nothing existed in that moment but the bard’s rich voice, holding the Wolves, and the lone Cat, completely enthralled.

_“Our tainted history_

_is playing on repeat_

_But we could change it_

_if we stand up strong and take the lead_

_When I was younger I was named_

_A generation unafraid_

_For the heirs to come, be brave.”_

The notes began to gain strength, like they were racing towards something. The bard’s took on a raspy quality, raising in volume. The words scraped at Eskel’s chest, as painful as claws, dragging down his face and neck as if reopening old wounds.

_“We carry on through the storm_

_Tired soldiers in this war_

_Remember what we’re fighting for.”_

And when the song reached its climax, everything damn near shattered. The depth of agony in the bard’s voice shook Eskel to his core, cried out into the firelight. Only for them.

_“Meet me on the battlefield_

_Even on the darkest night_

_I will be your sword and shield, your camouflage_

_And you will be mine_

_Echoes of the screams ring out_

_We may be the first to fall_

_Everything could stay the same_

_Or we could change it all_

_Meet me on the battlefield.”_

Slowly, softly, the last words of the song were whispered into the air. The last notes died away, Jaskier’s fingers finally falling still against the strings. The silence lay sudden and heavy and no one seemed in a hurry to break it. Eskel felt like his throat was constricted in a vice. He couldn’t see Geralt’s face but he could tell by the tension across his shoulders and the death grip the man still had on Eskel’s knee that he was struggling to keep his composure.

He took a quick glance around the room. Vesemir looked the most unaffected, chin resting in his hand, but his eyes were fierce where they were latched onto the bard. Aiden seemed unashamed of the tears that glistened on his cheek. Even Lambert looked a little glassy eyed, one arm subtly wrapped around the Cat’s hips, mostly hidden by the couch cushions. And Aubry—

Aubry’s face was a storm. He leapt up so suddenly to his feet that his boot clipped his glass, tipping it over against the stone floor. It broke with a sharp smash, and the spell the bard had woven was broken. Eskel watched with wide eyes as the tall Wolf stalked out of the library, the doors slamming against the wall with the force of his exit.

“Oh dear. That bad, huh?” Jaskier chuckled wetly.

Vesemir was the next to move. He crossed to stand in front of the bard who looked up at him, puzzled. The grizzled Witcher leaned down, cupping the back of the bard’s head as he pressed their foreheads together. Jaskier clearly understood the weight behind the gesture, knew exactly how much it meant, because his eyes were wavering when Vesemir stepped back. The sword master then quietly bade them all good night and took his leave.

“Fuckin’ hells, bard,” Aiden croaked, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. “Warn a man next time, will yah?”

Geralt let go of Eskel’s knee in favour of grabbing hold of the bard’s legs, pressing his head to Jaskier’s knees. Eskel could hear his brother’s breath fluttering a little in his chest. Regardless of how drunk Geralt was, this was still a surprising display of emotion from the extremely reserved Witcher. Jaskier held the lute aside, and began petting a gentle hand through Geralt’s hair.

“Perhaps something a little more upbeat next?” he teased softly, tugging lightly on Geralt’s snowy locks. He coaxed the Witcher to rest his head against the couch instead so he could settle the lute back in his lap.

The bard started to play again, fingers flying in a complex melody. The tune was gentle and lilting, but firmly in the upbeat category; a nice transitionary song to lead the listening Witchers away from the incredibly heavy emotions they’d just experienced without shocking the system. Even Jaskier’s voice, while still soft, was light and airy, and Eskel’s appreciation for the bard’s skills rose a notch. He may still hate that stupid coin song, but the man clearly knew how to manipulate an audience.

_“It’s cold and raw, the north winds blow_

_Black in the morning early,_

_When all the hills were covered with snow,_

_Oh then it was winter fairly.”_

Eskel couldn’t really pay attention to the song properly. Aubry’s broken expression kept drifting into his head. He excused himself mid-song, getting raised eyebrows from Jaskier but no one tried to stop him as he slipped out of the library and down the hall. He shivered as the chill of the draughty Keep sunk through his jacket. He fucking hated winter. The cold quickly tightened his scars, making them ache something fierce, but he put it out of his mind. He was used to it by now.

He didn’t really know where he was going, not fully admitting to himself that he was looking for the other Witcher. He wandered, eventually finding himself skirting the little inner courtyard that butted up against the back of the Great Hall.

It wasn’t a place where any of the Wolves spent time. It was too close to what happened just on the other side of that heavy oak door. Because of that, the courtyard was untended and piled high with untouched snow. A single withered tree stood twisted at the centre, iced over branches stretching towards the open sky.

Eskel almost missed him, sitting on the narrow stone bench tucked into an alcove. Shadows swathed him in darkness, the only thing really noticeable was the slivers of moonlight reflecting eerily off topaz eyes and the soft clouds of breath that puffed into the night air. “Vesemir send you to babysit me again?” the man said bitterly, propping his chin against his bent knee. “You should start charging a fee.”

“Just passin’ by, saw an idiotic Wolf doin’ his best impression of a barbegazi,” he said, happy he was only slurring a little. “Not quite enough facial hair to pull it off though.”

“Barbegazi, huh,” Aubry mused, the shadow of a smile flickered at the corner of his lips. “I thought you were hill-folk, but that just confirms it.”

“What else gave it away?” Eskel asked as he sat down on the other side of the narrow bench. It was small enough and both of them were broad enough that there was barely a sliver of room between them.

“The accent slips out when you’re drunk,” the older Wolf said, this time with a real smile on his face. Eskel chuckled at that, his smile turning into a wince as the ache deepened across his face. “The cold?” Aubry asked shrewdly.

Eskel nodded. “Fuckin’ hate it,” he grumbled.

Aubry hummed, nodding like he understood. “Know that feeling. Barely got any sleep last night. My back was just one big ache,” he grumbled.

“I’ve got a salve,” Eskel offered. “I know a mage in Vizima who makes it. It helps the tightness ’n the ache. ’N I got a bottle of Lambert’s moonshine hidin’ somewhere from last winter, if you, I mean, if you want.”

Aubry’s lips twitched upwards. “Sounds nice,” the man murmured.

Eskel’s room was freezing but a twist of Igni quickly solved that. A little concentration and he narrowed the chaos to a single flame between his first two fingers, lighting a few candles that were scattered about the mantle and table. When he was done, he snuffed out the flame with a clenched fist. “Impressive,” Aubry drawled.

“Always been good with Signs,” he said with a shrug. He fished around in the trunk at the end of his bed, finally producing a wax sealed green glass bottle. “There’s cups on the bookshelf,” he pointed, heading over to his desk to retrieve the salve.

When he turned back, the oval jar in hand, he found Aubry still looking through his bookshelf. “You have quite the collection,” he mused as he crossed over to stand beside Eskel, holding up two handleless cups.

Eskel cleared his throat self-consciously. It wasn’t something he really talked about to anyone. Jaskier had tried more than once, but his books had always felt private for some reason. Not something he wanted to share with others. “Uhh, yeah. More’n a couple decades worth,” he said. “I keep most of them here. Not really practical lugging books around on the Path, and they’d more than likely end up ruined.”

He set the salve aside in favour of pulling a knife from his boot to shave off the wax seal from the bottle. He worked the cork free with a soft pop and dutifully poured a healthy amount into each of the cups. The bottle ended up on the low table in front of the fire. He took the proffered cup from Aubry. A silent cheers was exchanged. He caught himself watching the other man’s throat, the way it rolled as Aubry swallowed, and quickly buried himself in his own cup.

“Melitele’s tits, that’s strong,” Aubry choked, eyes watering as he swallowed what Eskel knew felt like liquid fire.

“Sorry, shoulda warned you,” Eskel smirked. “Gets you drunker ’n half the time with a quarter of the amount, though.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Aubry drawled as he flopped down into one of the rickety chair that was set by the fire. Eskel took the other chair, pulling off his boots and socks to stretch his feet out towards the hearth.

“Here, have a smell,” he murmured, nudging the salve across the table with his cup. “Both Geralt ’n Lambert find it too strong, but I don’ mind it. Only use it at night so it don’t bother ‘em.”

Aubry set his cup aside, picking up the jar curiously. Smells bloomed into the room as soon as the lid was off— marigold, cloves, skullcap, nutmeg, and dandelion root created an earthy floral smell, all with the static undercurrent of magic. “Too strong?” he asked when Aubry snapped the lid back on and placed it back on the table.

“No, it’s fine,” Aubry said, fingers fidgeting around his cup. “I just…I’ve got a lotta scars. ‘N I know that stuff costs you gold, don’t deny it.”

Eskel just shrugged. It was true but he had worked it out. He’d done more than a few contracts for the mage who made this particular salve, not to mention bringing her bits and bobs from monsters he’d slain on the Path he thinks she might find useful and were easy to preserve and light to carry. They’d long since come to a mutually agreeable agreement. “Made a deal years ago. Don’t cost me all tha’ much, ’s fine,” he reassured.

Aubry was chewing on his bottom lip, looking so unsure, completely lacking in the easy confidence Eskel had come to expect from the man. “It’s not pretty,” Aubry mumbled. Eskel just snorted, waving a hand over his own face. Aubry huffed in what seemed like annoyance. “Tha’s different,” he bit out, something in his tone making Eskel feel like this was an old argument.

“Don’t see how,” he replied with a shrug. “Scars ‘s scars. Don’t matter how we get ‘em.”

“But it does,” Aubry snapped stiffly, fingers white-knuckling around his cup. Eskel was glad it was made of carved wood because glass would have long since shattered under the pressure. “It is different, and it fuckin’ matters. I didn’t get mine on the Path, I—”

“Neither did I,” Eskel interrupted.

“I—what?”

Eskel didn’t answer right away. He could feel Aubry’s glare burning holes into him, demanding answers. He downed his cup, feeling the alcohol burn viciously with every swallow. “I took a contract in Caingorn,” he said slowly. “Invoked the Law of Surprise as payment. Didn’t fuckin’ think it through.” He heard Aubry’s soft intake of breath. It wasn’t much of a leap to guess what his surprise was. Most children brought to the Wolf School back in the day were Children of Surprise, including Lambert.

“I w’s a fuckin’ coward,” he spat bitterly. He could hear his old accent now, smudging his vowels together with a thick burr. “‘N I ran. Avoided Caingorn like a plague for years. Traveled weeks outta m’ way just t’…but yah can’t outrun Destiny.” He swallowed thickly, reaching over to snatch up the bottle. He sloppily filled his glass nearly to the brim and gulped half of it down in one go. Even after so many years, it still hurt to talk about.

“She was born under t’ Black Sun,” he rasped, throat raw from the moonshine. “Had magic but it was all twisted. She came t’ me for help ’n gods, I tried. I tried t’ help her. I tried t’ make it right. But it wasn’t enough. There was a fight ’n—’n she got scared, n’ she…well.”

Eskel sniffed sharply, clearing his throat and blinking against the sting of his eye as he pushed himself more upright in his chair. “Damage speaks for itself,” he rumbled, watching the fire lick at the iron grate. “Lambert had t’ carry me off the field. Stitched me up ’s best he knew how but there w’s only so much he could do, even with Swallow.”

“What happened to her?” Aubry asked softly.

“Dunno,” Eskel shrugged, looking back to the floor. “She sent me a letter, years ago now, but…but I burned it without readin’ it.” Geralt hadn’t understood that one, had been damn pissed when he’d found out. Hypocrite. Vesemir hadn’t said anything, but Eskel could tell the man was disappointed in him and that was worse than anger. But he just couldn’t bring himself to read it. He’d seen her royal seal on it. If he didn’t read it, he could pretend she was safe and happy and living her life in peace. He didn’t think he could bare it if the truth was anything other than that.

He shook himself both mentally and physically, finishing his cup. He could really feel it now; the tingling in his fingers, the hazy film that hovered over everything, the heat that rumbled in his belly. It helped settle the memories but Eskel knew it would also make him morose if he didn’t catch himself. “So, you gonna lemme put this salve on your back now?” he rumbled.

Aubry stared across at him with an absolute whirlpool of emotions swirling in his tawny eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Then he grabbed the bottle and chugged about a third of it. He slammed it down on the table and then stood with a sudden fervour, hands scrambling at the buckles of his jerkin. His movements were stiff and frantic, like he was trying to get it over with before he lost the courage. The jerkin ended up on the floor. His fingers yanked harshly at his shirt, ripping the sleeve nearly in half when the laces at the wrist didn’t come free fast enough.

Eskel swallowed thickly. The man was certainly well muscled, with broad shoulders, a well defined chest, and narrow waist, but he was whipcord lean. He looked like he was coming off of more than a few lean seasons. A soft dusting of dark hair covered his chest, trailing down to a point at his belt buckle and Eskel yanked his eyes up before he got caught looking. There were scars, surely; claw marks here, a burn there, but nothing outside of the realm of what any Witcher would have after a few seasons on the Path. Then Aubry turned around and Eskel couldn’t help but stare.

And a wolf stared back at him.

It really was a wolf. A wolf’s head to be exact, eyes created from knots and slices of scar tissue. Sweeping lines climbed up and across Aubry’s shoulders, reaching all the way down to his mid back and covering everything in between. Geometric style patterns and criss-crossing lines created a striking picture. It was difficult not to react, not to want to reach out and touch. It was actually quite beautiful, but Eskel kept his opinions to himself. He could see the tension across Aubry’s shoulders, the way he held his hands clenched into trembling fists by his sides. This wasn’t beautiful for him. This was a constant and painful reminder of decades of torment and pain that had literally been carved into his skin. Eskel could relate to the feeling.

“It’d be easier if you lay down,” Eskel murmured. “But only if tha’s comf’trble,” he added hurriedly.

“That’s fine,” the man rasped, but he did grab the bottle of moonshine before heading over to the bed. He tripped a little as he struggled to kick off his boots, but managed it after a good about of cursing. He took another long pull from the bottle, then set it on the floor before collapsing onto the bed. He settled onto his stomach, burying his face in his crossed arms.

Eskel took a moment to shrug out of his own padded jacket and roll his sleeves up to his elbows before he snatched up the salve and cross to the bed. He planted himself by Aubry’s hip, feeling like straddling the other Wolf might be too much. He unscrewed the lid, setting it aside before scooping out a liberal amount with two fingers.

“This might tingle a lil’,” he warned. He was careful as he smoothed the salve along the topmost scar on Aubry’s closest shoulder but the other man still flinched, hands tightening against the covers. He worked his hands into knotted muscles as he went, soothed them carefully over the raised scar tissue.

The fire was burning low and the jar of salve was half empty by the time Eskel finally finished. “Thanks,” Aubry murmured when Eskel removed his hands. The man’s back muscles rippled, his shoulders bunching as he stretched. Eksel swallowed and quickly looked away, listing the ingredients for White Raffard’s decoction over and over in his head to distract himself.

“Yeah, no problem,” he mumbled as he retrieved the moonshine from the floor where Aubry had left it. There wasn’t that much left, and Eskel hadn’t realized how much they’d drank until he stood up. The entire room spun sideways and he sat back down with an oomph.

There was a drunken chuckle from behind him and he felt the bed shift. “Lay down a’for y’ fall down,” Aubry slurred as he shuffled over to the other side of the mattress. Eskel snorted. He finished the bottle and let it slide through numb fingers, rolling somewhere under the bed. The room tilted again but this time it was from him kicking his legs up onto the bed. He stuffed a pillow under his head and stared up at the wood beams that crisscrossed the ceiling.

“Do you—”

Eskel glance over, finding Aubry had rolled onto his side facing him. He had his arms wrapped around a pillow, his dark hair splayed out against it like a halo. His eyes were fixed somewhere around Eskel’s collarbone, his bottom lip once again firmly caught between his teeth. “Do I what?” Eskel asked.

“I don’t—,” Aubry trailed off again, eyes glassy. “I can’t ‘member their names anymore,” he confessed in a whisper. “The pups. I can’t—” At this rate, the man was going to wear a hole straight through his lip. When he drew blood, Eskel turned his head away. He looked up at the ceiling until the fire banked enough that the shadows started to creep closer and hide everything in their darkness.

“Neither can I,” Eskel whispered.

______________________________

“Neither can I,” he heard the other Wolf whispered.

Aubry closed his eyes against the sting in them. The bard’s song was still rattling like a ghost in the back of his head, calling up memories. He might not remember their names but he could see their faces. They usually lived as dull memories, coming to life only at night to haunt his dreams, and then to fade again with the sun. But then that damn bard started singing and he hadn’t been able to stop seeing them, replaying in a never ending loop. The blonde boy with the gap between his teeth. The red head with all the freckles. The one with one blue eye and one brown eye. The twins with the cowlicks.

The brown haired lad who wanted to be knight. The boy with dark eyes made darker by a black eye, scowling over a split lip. And the one with dark brown curls and a hill-folk accent.

Aubry felt a light touch on his shoulder, right above a deep knot of scar tissue and he forgot where he was. He flung himself away in a panic and then he was falling. His ass hit the ground hard, his palms and feet scrapping against cold stone as he scrambled backwards. His back hit something solid and there was a sharp crash.

A pair of glazed tawny eyes peered down at him over the edge of a large bed, out of a face seamed with scars and surrounded by tousled dark hair that had long since lost its boyish curls. “You alright?” Eskel asked.

He placed his head in his hands with a groan, struggling to reorientate himself and wishing the room would stop spinning. He watched through his fingers as Eskel crawled to the end of the bed and dumped himself onto the floor in an ungraceful sprawl. “Bed’s a lot more comfortable but t’ each their own, I suppose,” he drawled, scratching a hand through his hair. He winced as his fingers snagged and reached back to work out the leather thong that had gotten tangled there during the night.

Finally, Aubry got tired of watching the man growl and yank at the tie. “Need a hand?” he offered, surprising both Eskel and himself with the offer. He just needed something to focus on, something to do with his hands. Aubry scooted forward when Eskel nodded, situating himself behind the other Wolf, the bed on their right.

The Wolf’s hair was soft but holy, was it tangled. Aubry dug his nails into the leather tie but they were too short to get any leverage. “You got a comb?” he asked. Eskel nodded and pushed himself up onto unsteady feet. Aubry got himself back up on the bed, blinking against the head rush of standing as he watched Eskel dig through the packs stacked in the corner and return with a wide toothed comb. “Be easier 'f you sit on th’ floor,” he said, tucking one of his legs up underneath himself. Eskel nodded again and folded himself down until he he was sitting on the floor.

It took a bit of work, but Aubry finally loosened the leather enough to be able to work it free. He set the thong aside and began carefully picking apart the tangles, careful not to pull too much. Once the comb was gliding smoothly, he set it aside and carefully began working his fingers through Eskel’s hair instead. If he hadn’t been so drunk, he probably wouldn’t have taken such a liberty, but as it was, he was very very drunk.

He stroked firmly up and over the back of Eskel’s head, massaging his fingers in gentle circular motions. He’d gotten a head massage from a whore in Temeria once, so he tried to remember what the man had done that felt good. He worked up to the man’s hairline, circled his temples, dragged his fingers up the back of Eskel’s neck to hook against the base of his skull. Slowly the tension relaxed from the younger Witcher. “Feels good,” Eskel slurred.

Aubry smiled, feeling the man shiver when he scraped blunt nails against his scalp. He dragged his fingers back through, hooking them around the strands of hair and tugging gently. The soft moan that slipped past Eskel’s lips struck Aubry low and hard in the belly, kindling a heat he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He swallowed dryly and began to gather the hair into one hand so he could tie it back again. His fingers accidentally brushed along Eskel’s jawline, along the ridges of distorted scar tissue. The reaction was immediate and Eskel flinched violently away, his hair ripping from Aubry’s grip.

“Sorry,” he breathed, hands hovering above the man’s shoulders.

“‘S fine, I overreacted. ‘m sorry,” Eskel rasped, tucking his chin down so the right side of his face angled away from Aubry.

Well, that wouldn’t do. He’d just gotten the man relaxed and now he was all tense again. He hated the way the Wolf was hunched in on himself now. He placed his hands lightly on Eskel’s shoulders, feeling the muscles bunch and tense under his touch. He kept them there, letting the Wolf get comfortable with his touch again. It took a moment, but slowly the man’s shoulders detached from his ears.

In tandem, he moved both hands up either side of Eskel’s neck, fully aware that he was brushing over the knotted scars that traced nearly all the way to the Wolf’s collarbone. A hand latched onto the back of his ankle. “What are you…,” Eskel breathed, but Aubry just shushed him. He settled his fingers lightly underneath the man’s jaw, letting his thumbs rest against the hinges of Eskel’s jaw.

Carefully, he tilted the younger Wolf’s head to the right, putting the man’s scarred cheek into the palm of his hand and resting the weight against his knee. It stretched out the side of the man’s neck, and Aubry soothed his thumb firmly down the muscle, pressing deep into the base of his shoulder. He repeated the motion, carefully working the tense corded muscle.

Once this side was soft and pliant under his touch, he shifted Eskel’s head to his other hand, baring his scars to the candlelight. He knew it would make the Wolf uncomfortable and he felt the tension as soon as he began tilting Eskel’s head. The hand on his ankle flexed, nails digging in. “Relax,” he soothed.

He started featherlight, only fingertips. He started just below Eskel’s eye, following a single jagged path all the way down to his shoulder. Then he repeated, starting just above the Wolf’s eyebrow, down under his jaw, and down his neck. Slowly, he felt Eskel release the death grip on his ankle, his breath fluttering raggedly. After a few minutes, he felt the hand shift, slipping underneath the cuff of his pants. A light touch brushed across his anklebone but when he looked down, Eskel’s eyes were firmly closed.

On the next pass, Aubry let his fingers follow the scar that lead to Eskel’s mouth, where the stiff tissue curled the top lip up and showed just a sliver of tooth. He let his thumb brush over the scar and then, feeling drunkenly emboldened, traced it along Eskel’s bottom lip.

He felt the hand on his ankle tighten again, heard Eskel’s breath hitch in his chest, but before he could panic or apologize, he felt Eskel’s lips move against his thumb in the barest hint of a caress. A hand settled on his wrist, following up his arm as the younger man turned around to face him. Aubry had never been more aware of his own heartbeat, or someone else's, both beating in sync. The hand on his arm slide up to his shoulder. He felt a gentle pull and he went with it willingly, until slightly chapped lips pressed lightly against his.

Those lips pulled back and Aubry chased them eagerly. A little too eagerly it turned out, and he suddenly felt himself pitching headfirst off the bed. Hands tried to hold him up but Eskel, while not as drunk as he was, was nowhere near sober and already off balance from leaning back. They ended up on the floor, Aubry sprawled on top of Eskel. The younger man’s head bounced harshly off the stone from the sudden weight.

Aubry looked down, mouth hanging open in surprise. He met Eskel’s equally wide eyed gaze, and then they both dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Ow,” Eskel chuckled, rubbing the back of his head with a wince.

“Fuck, ‘m sorry,” Aubry giggled, struggling to roll off the other man without planting a knee or elbow anywhere soft. The room spun and continued spinning even when he was sure he was lying still. “Shit, ‘m drunk. ‘M so drunk. Tell the room t’ stop dancin’, I need a break.”

Eskel snorted, pushing himself up into first a sitting position, and then to an unsteady standing one. “Come on, think it’s time for bed,” he drawled, holding out a hand.

“If y’ drop me, ‘m gonna b’ pissed,” Aubry slurred, but took the proffered hand. Eskel pulled him easily to his feet, grabbing onto his biceps before he could over balance again. “Seems a century 'r so inna cell ‘s shit f’ the tol’rance,” Aubry snorted, patting the man clumsily on his chest before stumbling over to the bed to collapse down into it. “Hope y’r good wit’ sharin’ cuz I don’ ‘member how legs work.”

If he wasn’t so drunk, he might have worried about how long it took Eskel to move again, but as it was, he was having difficulties tracking time properly. Slowly the room darkened around him as Eskel moved about blowing out candles. Then the furs and covers were being tugged out from under him. The mattress dipped under a sudden weight. Soft blankets were pulled around him and he hadn’t realized how cold the air in the room was until he was cocooned in warmth.

“Sorry ‘f I snore,” he slurred softly, fighting to keep his eyes open. 

“Don’ worry, ‘parently ’m a cuddly drunk. We all got flaws,” he heard Eskel reply.

“’Don’ sound much like a flaw t’ me,” Aubry murmured, losing the battle against his own eyes. The last thing he felt was calloused-rough fingers hesitantly brushed the hair back from his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier sings is Meet Me On The Battlefield by SVRCINA. I changed one line from “Echoes of the shots ring out” to “Echoes of the screams ring out” to better fit with the fantasy setting. The snippet he starts to sing is The Maid That Sold Her Barley by Deanta. 
> 
> A barbegazi comes from French/Swiss mythology, which translates to “frozen beard”. I couldn’t find anything in Witcher lore of a creature that embodied winter/ice.


	8. Chapter 8

Aubry woke up with a heavy ache behind his eyes and the echoes of steel bands wrapped a hair too tight around his wrists. His head was pillowed on something warm that rose and fell softly. Two spots of heat were pressed firmly against his back, one between his shoulder blades and one nestled in the hollow of his mid back. He blinked and everything came back to him in a rush. He was at Kaer Morhen, the mage was dead, and he was nursing the mother of all hangovers.

He groaned, pressing his face into the hollow of Eskel’s throat. He felt the vibrations rumble up the man’s chest as he chuckled roughly. One of the hands on his back moved slowly up his spine and massaged tentatively at the back of his neck. It was a hesitant touch, like the Wolf wasn’t sure it would be received. But it felt nice and Aubry let himself float until the sun rose enough the send bright slivers of light across the bed. An east facing bedroom wouldn’t have been Aubry’s first choice but he supposed it wasn’t the worst way to wake up.

“Come on,” Eskel murmured, nudging at his shoulder. “Training stands, hungover or not.”

“Fucking hells,” Aubry mumbled, rolling over onto his back with a wince. “What does Lambert put in that shit, anyways?”

“I don’t think you wanna know,” the man rumbled as he slipped out of the bed and rummaged through the wardrobe in the corner for a clean shirt.

Aubry groaned again, covering his eyes with a forearm. Everything got a lot darker as something was tossed over his head. He flailed a little, holding up a shirt so dark a blue it was nearly black. “It’s my turn to put the bread in the oven this morning,” Eskel rumbled as he did up the buckles of his jacket. “Try sticking your head in a snowbank. I’ve found it helps.”

He listened to the younger Wolf’s boots echo down the hallway, counted to ten, and then forced his body to sit up. His stomach lurched and his headache chased down his neck. He pulled the shirt on gingerly, getting enveloped by the scent of amber and nutmeg. By the time he finished getting dressed and braided his hair back, the nausea had settled.

He slipped out of Eskel’s room when he knew there was no one in the hallway. He wasn’t ashamed, he just didn’t want to have to answer any questions right now. He didn’t really know what last night meant, but he did know that he slept better than he had in an age. Certainly better than the night before, after Aiden moved to Lambert’s room. He’d never even think of asking the Cat to stay, but there was something about having another person breathing next to him that kept the dreams at bay.

Eskel was the only one in the dining hall when Aubry arrived, nursing a tea that smelled of ginger and fennel. He’d just sat down across from the other Wolf when Vesemir arrived, placing another mug of tea in front of him.

The rest filtered in slowly after that. Lambert arrived next, far too used to drinking his own stuff to look barely hungover. Aiden looked slightly worse for wear, something off that Aubry couldn’t put his finger on, but he chalked it up to the hangover he must be sporting. The Cat slid in beside him, across from Lambert but putting Aubry on his blind side which was a level of trust that the Wolf knew was there, but seeing it so blatantly declared was another matter. Something warm kindled inside his chest—

—which was killed instantly when the Cat’s nose literally twitched, his eyes flicking between Aubry and Eskel as a sly smirk crept over his lips. “Nice shirt,” he drawled, which had Eskel choking on porridge as his ears flushed red. Lambert’s eyes narrowed, flicking back and forth between the three of them until they popped wide with sudden realization. Then he smirked. Aubry valiantly resisted the urge to slam Aiden’s face into his oats.

Training was exactly the hell that Aubry expected. He was drenched with sweat by the time they swapped partners for the second time, regardless that the air was bitterly cold and the wind was starting to pick up. He did perk up when Vesemir changed the partners and put him with Aiden. He’d gotten to see a little of how the Cat fought but the last time he’d been mostly paying attention to his own fights, and the first time he’d been preoccupied with not killing the younger Witcher.

Aiden fought like the embodiment of his School’s name. He was graceful and fluid, a far more hit and run style than even Aubry’s own. It was clear he was a little out of condition. He was sweating and some of his movements had a slight undercurrent of strain to them. But he was fast and nimble and kept Aubry on his toes.

Half way through the fight, Aubry managed to tangle their blades together and hauled Aiden over his hip, sending the slimmer man tumbling to the ground. Aiden bounced back up, a snarl on his lips and heat in his eyes. He seemed to check himself, hand tightening against the hilt of his practice sword.

“You good?” Aubry asked, seeing the way the man’s jaw muscles were twitching. Aiden nodded stiffly and he felt alarm bells go off in his head. “Don’t bullshit me, Cat,” he murmured, taking care that his voice wouldn’t carry past the two of them.

“I’m not,” Aiden snapped, eyes flashing. “I’m fine, Wolf, now unbunch your braies and fucking fight me." The other four were well and truly focused on their own fights but Aubry could feel Vesemir’s eyes shift to them. He didn’t like the unhinged light that was starting to fill the Cat’s eyes so he lowered his blade. “The fuck is your problem?” Aiden spat.

“I’m not fighting you with a blade when you’re like this,” Aubry stated calmly.

“Like what?”

“Angry.”

“I’m not fucking angry,” Aiden hissed, to which Aubry just raised an eyebrow. The Cat growled, a low menacing sound that shouldn’t be possible from a human throat.

“Breathe,” he scolded.

“Fuck you,” Aiden spat.

“Naw, you’re too skinny. I’d break you in half on accident.”

“Like to see you fucking try.” There it was. A flicker of humour buried under the mounting anger.

Aubry smirked, carefully placing his blade down on the frozen ground. “Come on, then. Give it your best shot, princess,” he baited, throwing his arms wide. It felt a little like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a werewolf but the humour was still there, twitching at the corners. The Cat’s sword ended up in the dirt and then a boot was flying towards his face.

He knew they had an audience now. The clashing of steel that had been dominating the courtyard for the past two hours had been silenced, but he forced himself not to focus on it. Aiden was far better at fighting hand to hand than he was and Aubry really didn’t want to end up with a broken nose. The Cat’s punches packed a lot of weight when they managed to land.

About ten minutes into the fight, Aubry could feel this was unraveling and quickly. Aiden’s eyes lost the humour and were actually looking a little manic. His lips was curled back from his teeth, showing his sharpened canines.

When Aubry’s back hit stone from a boot to the solar plexus, he decided they’d both had enough. He trapped both Aiden’s forearms underneath his, using his ankle to take one of the Cat’s legs out from underneath him and employing his superior weight to take him down to the ground. “Think we’ve both had enough,” he commented mildly. 

Aiden’s answer was to slam his forehead up into Aubry’s face. He heard something crack and abrief flash of white hot pain blanked out his vision. So much for not breaking his nose. His hold loosened for a fraction of a second and Aiden got himself loose. He got Aubry’s arm in hold at a weird angle and he felt something tear near the shoulder joint. He growled, landing a hard boot to Aiden’s ribs that sent him sprawling.

Before Aiden could do more than scramble back to his feet, Vesemir was there. He latched hand on the scruff of Aiden’s jerkin and yanked him back down to the ground.

Everyone was shouting now. Hands helped him off the ground and he glanced wildly over his shoulder to see Eskel carefully holding him up with worried eyes. Geralt had his arms wrapped around Lambert, holding the Wolf back as he frantically tried to reach Aiden, with Jaskier hovering from a safe distance.

Vesemir already had Aiden on the ground, keeping him pinned with a knee to his lower back and both wrists held tight in one of his, stretched out above his head so the Cat had no leverage. He used his other hand to pin Aiden’s head to the ground, left side up so he could still see. “Vesemir, don’t, just let me—Geralt, get the fuck off me,” Lambert cried, throwing desperate elbows into Geralt’s ribs but the white haired Wolf just took it and didn’t let go of the squirming Witcher.

“Quiet,” Vesemir growled, sparing them only a brief glance before turning his attention back to the Cat who struggles had spiralled from violent to desperate very quickly. “Enough!” he barked sharply and Aiden went limp under him. “You done?” he demanded. “Answer me, are you done?”

“Yes,” Aiden rasped softly.

“Good lad,” Vesemir said in that low rumble he used to use to calm frighten pups. “Now, I’m gonna let you go, and you’re gonna behave, is that clear?”

Maybe it was the emphasis that was put on that word. Maybe it was just the word in general. Whatever it was, it took his knees out from under him. He didn’t hear Aiden’s startled shout. He didn’t hear Eskel’s worried voice mere inches from his ear. He didn’t hear Vesemir calling his name. He didn’t hear anything but static and a silky smooth voice murmuring that one single word in his head.

_Behave._

______________________________

That sharp command broke through the rage and he snapped back to himself. Panic thrummed like hyper toxicity through his chest as he realized he was pinned flat out on his stomach, hands around his wrists, another pressing his face into the first. If he strained his periphery, he could see Vesemir’s craggy face. “You done?” the old Witcher demanded and Aiden was struck once again how much the man reminded him of his mentor, Kiyan. “Answer me, are you done?”

“Yes,” he croaked, forcing himself to go lax even though every single instinct told him to fight the vice that pinned his wrists in the dirt.

“Good lad,” the man murmured, in a deep low rumble. “Now, I’m gonna let you go, and you’re gonna behave, is that clear?”

Vesemir hadn’t even got to the end of his sentence before Aiden saw Aubry slip through Eskel’s arms and drop to his knees. He let out a surprised shout, not even managing to form words, it was just noise. The weight against his back disappeared and the hand let go of his wrists as Vesemir called out Aubry’s name. Eskel was crouched behind the other Wolf, hands on his shoulders keeping him more or less upright.

“Come on, pup. Eyes up here. What’s going on?” Vesemir was saying as he moved to crouch before the other Wolf, trying to get Aubry to look at him. Hands grabbed Aiden’s shoulders and he flinched hard until he realized it was just Lambert.

“‘M fine, just slipped,” Aubry mumbled, refusing to look up from the ground. He stumbled to his feet, flinching and slapping Eskel away when he tried to stabilize him. “Don’t touch me,” he snarled and Eskel backed off, hands raised. Aiden could tell the snarl didn’t have much malice in it. He knew what the Wolf sounded like when he was scared.

“Don’t,” he croaked when both Vesemir and Eskel made moves to follow the other Wolf as he beelined it into the Keep. He scrambled to his feet, Lambert a steady presence against his elbow.

“He needs that nose set,” Eskel said, looking worriedly at Vesemir. His eyes flicked briefly to Aiden almost apologetically as he continued. “And I’m pretty sure he got something torn in his shoulder.” Jaskier was hovering by Geralt’s elbow, trying and failing to keep his glances towards Aiden subtly. Geralt wasn’t even trying to be subtle and was just staring at Aiden like it was just a matter of time before he snapped again. He supposed it was but he shoved that thought down, along side his own guilt. He’d deal with that later. There were more important things, like finding that wayward Wolf.

“I’ve got him,” he murmured, shaking off Lambert’s hand and heading towards the Keep.

He wasn’t even halfway there before Geralt planted himself between Aiden and the door. “You really think you’re the best option?” the Wolf rumbled, a single snowy eyebrow raised. And while Aiden could understand that Geralt was just being protective over his fellow Wolf, he’d spent the last couple years learning how to deal with Aubry when he got like this.

A hand grabbed his arm as he tried to sidestep the Wolf. There was a lot of anger still heating his blood, so it was a testament to how he was clawing back control that all he did was to slap Geralt’s hand away with a low growl. Then Lambert got involved, shoving himself between his brother and Aiden. “Back the fuck off,” the youngest Wolf hissed. Vesemir had to pull them apart. Jaskier was shouting again, and Aiden used the chaos to slip inside before anyone else could try and stop him. 

There were a few drops of blood every so often, stark red against the grey stones. It was easy follow. Guilt swelled in his gut, curdling with the lingering anger like a poison. He heard running feet behind him, but he kept walking. He heard his name being called, but he kept walking. He was still vibrating and he didn’t want to be responsible for what might happen if he stopped. “Aiden!” Lambert called out, finally catching up to him on the stairs.

“What?!” he barked, whirling around.

Lambert flinched at his shout and took a half step back, eyes wide. “I…,” he fumbled, clearly off balance. “I just…are you alright?”

“I’m not made of glass, Lambert,” Aiden growled, knowing his words were going to hurt but unable to stop them. “I don’t need you to hold my dick while I walk up a fucking flight of stairs.”

“No, I didn’t mean…,”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I know you didn’t mean, but I can only fix one Wolf at a time here so just gimme some breathing room, for Melitele’s sake.”

And wasn’t that just the absolute worst thing to say. Under better circumstances, he’d kick himself for raising his voice like that, for saying that there was something about the Wolf Witcher that needed to be fixed. He didn’t do that with Lambert, he knew better. But he was off balance and not in his right mind and the words just tumbled out. Aiden had to watch as the hurt flood through Lambert’s eyes, his face shuttering closed.

“Fuck, Lamb, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s fine,” the younger man muttered, but he was avoiding eye contact in a way that was distinctly _not_ fine. “Go take care of your Wolf,” he sneered over his shoulder as he backtracked down the stairs and disappeared around the corner.

“Fuck,” he spat under his breath.

He found Aubry in an empty bedroom on the floor above Lambert’s, sitting under a window with his arm cradled against his chest and blood still tacky on his face. His head was resting against the wall, tilted up so he could look out the window. The air stank with stale fear, like rust and old blood. He shoved his own guilt deep down and sat down on the side of the small dusty bed a few feet in front of the Wolf. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” the dark haired man rasped.

“Lemme help anyways?” he asked softly. At Aubry’s stiff nod, he folded himself down to the ground to kneel in front of the Wolf. “Nose first before it heals wrong,” he muttered, carefully pressing both his thumbs against either side of the crooked bone. After a fair amount of pressure and a sharp crack had the nose more or less straight. Aubry didn’t even wince.

Aiden went to reach for the shoulder next but the Wolf just brushed his hands away. “Don’t, it’s fine.”

“What, like your nose?” Aiden asked pointedly.

“It’s not dislocated. Leave it alone.”

“Alright. I guess I’ll just send Eskel and his puppy dog eyes up here to deal with you instead.”

A hand latched around his wrist as he stood. “Don’t,” Aubry rasped. “I don’t want him t—just, don’t.” 

“Not gonna stop him from if he finds that breadcrumb trail of blood you left. What if he wants his shirt back?”

“Fuck you,” the Wolf spat, throwing Aiden’s own hand at him.

“Thought I was too skinny for your tastes.”

“Just—just leave me alone.”

“What happened, Wolf?” he pushed, crouching back down in front of the other man. “Come on, you dropped like that bastard was back from the dead and telling you to heel—”

The punch the other man threw was awkward and across his own body but it still landed solidly across Aiden’s jaw. “So that’s it then,” he murmured, poking his tongue around his cheek to make sure he wasn’t bleeding. “What was it? The way I got pinned? He…did he—”

“No,” Aubry interrupted swiftly. “He was a sick fuck but he never did anything like that.”

“Good,” he replied, one of the knots under his ribs unravelling. “So what was it?”

“Please leave me alone, Aiden,” the other Witcher sighed. “I don’t have the energy to pacify your guilt right now.”

Well, that certainly stung, but Aiden figured he’d lashed out enough at the other Wolf over the years. He could take one in return. He knew Aubry wasn’t trying to be cruel but he certainly meant it. He hardly ever used Aiden’s actual name. “Sorry,” Aiden murmured, getting to his feet. “At least get onto the bed before your ass freezes to the stone.”

He ran into Eskel on the stairs, a few bottles and cloths in hand. “I fixed his nose but he wouldn’t let me touch his shoulder,” he said in leu of a greeting. The big man’s facial expression might have been funny under different circumstances.

“I—I don’t think—”

“Just go take care of him,” Aiden interrupted sharply. Eskel still looked uncertain but he nodded and that was enough for Aiden who then flew down to check Lambert’s room. He hadn’t expected the Wolf to be there, but he looked anyways. He checked the other rooms on the floor, the library, the hot springs, the cellar alchemy den, but nothing. Not even a trace. The kitchen was empty, and at first sight so was the dining hall.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“South tower.” Aiden whirled, seeing Vesemir sitting in the tall plush backed chair beside the fire. “It’s where he goes to hide, has ever since he was a pup,” the man murmured. Aiden hesitated but the older Witcher made a shooing motion at him. “Go on, lad. We’ll talk about what happened later.”

And wasn’t that going to be a fun conversation.

The south tower was a crumbling ruin. Aiden walked through what he thought was the door but honestly, it was kind of hard to tell. There wasn’t many options for which way to go once he was inside. The entire floor above had crumpled into ruined chunks that blocked everything but the narrow staircase that led up.

He had to leap a couple gaps, edged his way along a narrow ledge when too many stairs were missing. Finally he made it to a floor that was actually intact, but the entire west and north walls were missing. He found Lambert perched on the edge of the crumbling outer balcony, legs swinging out over empty air.

He sat down next to Lambert, ignoring the unnerving swooping sensation as he let his legs hang out over the edge. The snow quickly soaked through his pants but he ignored it. Lambert’s jaw had started twitching the minute he’d stepped out onto the balcony and hadn’t stop.

The wind was brutal up here, cutting straight through the thin cotton shirt and chilling his sweat damp skin. The sky was swirling clouds, rolling threateningly up the mountain towards the Keep. There would be a mother of a storm tonight. The silence made him twitchy and his fingers fidgeted for something to do. He reached up a hand, carefully brushing his thumb across the bunched muscle. He tried not to take it personally when Lambert pulled away from his touch. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“’S just words. Don’t mean shit,” Lambert said flatly.

“I don’t know what else to say,” he whispered.

“So don’t say anythin’,” the younger man snapped. “Don’t fuckin’ say anythin’, for fuckin’ once in you gods damned life. You can’t _fix_ everythin’ with words, Aiden.”

Aiden swallowed thickly as his words were thrown back in his face. They both had a temper, that was for certain, but they were different. Aiden’s temper flared hot and burned out quick, leaving him with enough guilt to bury an entire mountain. Lambert’s was explosive and all consuming, but it had been honed to cut. Aiden caused pain on accident, while Lambert did it on purpose to make sure everyone else was hurting as much as he was.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Can’t even keep your mouth shut for two fuckin’ seconds, can yah?” Lambert grumbled. “’N stop that, gonna make yourself bleed.” Aiden didn’t realize he was picking at the scars on his hand, the ones his own teeth had worn into his skin, until Lambert slapped his hand away.

Aiden huffed and tucked his boot back up on the ledge to push himself up—clearly Lambert wasn’t in the mood for company—but then a hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked his leg back over the edge. For one terrifying moment, Aiden thought he’d go straight over but Lambert grabbed the waistband of his pants and yanked him back. “Fuck, you trying to make me sing soprano?” he winced, adjusting himself.

Lambert didn’t respond right away. He went back to staring down at the ground, but this is what he did. He lashed out first, usually words but he’d used his fists a time or two in the beginning. Then he’d get withdrawn and if Aiden was patient enough, he’d finally come out with the truth. Aiden tried not to shiver as the dark clouds finally reached the Keep and the first soft flakes of snow started curling down around their heads. In the distance thunder rumbled ominously, rolling down the mountains like a wave.

“I’m not good at sharin’,” Lambert muttered, voice barely carrying over the wind. “But I can try, if that’s what you want.”

“Fucking hells,” Aiden muttered. So that’s what this was about. This had to be fixed right now. He pulled his leg up and this time Lambert didn’t try and stop him, but he wasn’t going far. He turned sideways, leaving one leg dangling over the edge while he planted the other boot on the stone behind Lambert’s back.

“Don’t think you aren’t enough for me,” he growled. “And don’t you _ever_ think I want anyone else besides your curmudgeonly ass.” Lambert’s eyes dragged over to glare at him, but the annoyance was dampened by too many other emotions. “I mean it,” Aiden murmured. “There’s no other Wolf for me. Never has been, never will. And I’m sorry I made you feel like there was.”

Lambert’s jaw muscles were working overtime now and there was a soft flush to the tips of his ears. “Sappy bastard,” he muttered.

“Ah, but you love it,” Aiden murmured.

“Yeah, I really do,” Lambert mumbled. Aiden felt his mouth fall open and the dark haired man dropped his eyes again as his neck flushed. That was the closest he’d ever heard the Wolf come to saying that four letter word. It made his chest tighten and a smile tug at his lips. “Yeah, whatever. Don’t hafta look so fuckin’ smug ‘bout it,” the young Wolf grumbled, but the corner of his mouth was threatening to twitch upwards. Aiden bent down, butting his forehead against Lambert’s shoulder, letting it rest there.

“I am sorry,” Aiden said softly after letting them both bask in the moment. His fingers fiddled with the sleeve of Lambert’s jacket. “For what I said. I never meant for you to think that….”

“Shut up, idiot. I know that,” Lambert snapped, jostling his shoulder against Aiden’s head. “I do know,” he added with slightly less force. “Just get twisted up sometimes. Shouldnt’a run like that. But I trust you, for whatever tha’s worth,” he added.

Aiden lifted his chin to rest on Lambert’s shoulder, tucking his nose up under the Wolf’s ear. “It’s worth the world,” he murmured, pressing his lips lightly against the soft skin.

“Sappy bastard,” Lambert growled again, but this time there was a goodly dose of affection behind the harsh words.

______________________________

Eskel knocked softly but then opened the door without waiting for an answer. He found Aubry sitting on the bed, his back up against the headboard with his boots on the bare mattress. He had one arm cradled in his lap, good still caked down his face from the crack to the nose. Tawny eyes were on him as soon as he stepped into the room, guarded and wary.

He glanced around, but this was one of the unoccupied rooms and there wasn’t much here beyond a few pieces of dusty furniture and an empty bookshelf. He could see how tense the other Wolf was so he decided to stay by the door, at least for now. “Little birdie told me you still had a shoulder needed seeing to,” Eskel drawled.

“You mean Aiden sent you,” Aubry replied flatly.

Eskel shrugged, waggling the bottle of alcohol in his hand. “Was bringing the supplies anyways. You gonna let me clean you up or you wanna do it yourself?” When Aubry didn’t say anything, Eskel crossed the room and put the things down on the bed. When the man didn’t take the alcohol soaked cloth he offered, Eskel considered that permission enough.

He sat down by the other Wolf’s hip, nose wrinkling a little at the fumes from the cloth. He tucked fingers under Aubry’s chin, gently tilting it up so he could clean the blood from the man’s face. Aubry closed his eyes, almost leaning into the touch, which was an encouraging sign. The bridge of Aubry’s nose was split and a little swollen. Bruises shadowed under his eyes but that would be gone by the evening. He set the bloodied cloth on the side table and moved to start unbuckling the man’s jerkin. “Gotta look at your shoulder,” he said when Aubry gave a questioning grunt.

“My shoulder’s fine,” the man said flatly.

“I’m sure it is,” Eskel drawled. “But I’m still gonna have a look.”

Aubry huffed, but didn’t fight as Eskel carefully drew his arms out of the leather and then got to work easing the shirt over his head. He carefully felt up the man’s arm, pretending not to notice the way Aubry flinched as his fingers brushed across the scars that wrapped up the back of his shoulder. He walked the Wolf through various mobility exercises, testing his range of motion. “Just pulled,” he grunted, bringing Aubry’s arm back down from over his head. “If anything’s torn, it’s minor. Come on, I’ll find you another shirt to borrow.”

Aubry shook his head, pulling his arm out of Eskel’s grasp. “This’ns fine,” he grunted, reaching with his good hand for the damp blue shirt Eksel just peeled him out of.

“Bullshit,” Eskel snorted, pulling it out of reach. “It’s sweaty and it stinks, not to mention the bloodstains.”

“Sorry,” the other man mumbled.

“You think I’m gonna blame you for bleeding on my shirt? Not like you broke your own nose,” Eksel drawled.

“You don’t get to blame him for it either,” Aubry snapped sharply, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Didn’t say that I did,” Eskel replied carefully.

“He’s…that mage messed with his head and he— it’s not his fault,” the man rumbled, shifting uncomfortably as he stopped himself from saying more.

“Nothing you say would leave this room,” he said with gentle reassurance but Aubry was already shaking his head.

“Not my story to tell.”

Eskel hummed. He could respect that. “And you?”

Aurby’s eyes rolled up, briefly meeting his with a harsh flash of annoyance. “I’m fine,” the older man insisted, but the way his teeth were worrying at his bottom lip like it owed him money told different stories. He was twisting himself into knots to stay in control, to not let anything slip, and it all suddenly it all clicked. Eskel had seen the dynamic between Aubry and the Cat, even if it had only been over two days. It was easy to see how protective they were over each other.

It made sense. Aubry had held himself together for so long, kept himself sane all these years, managing to hold onto a gentleness that was an oddity amongst regular folk, let alone Witchers. And he’d spent the last six years holding Aiden up too. He’d spent so long unable to let himself break, unable to show any weakness. Maybe he’d forgotten how. It wasn’t like it was a Witcher strong suit to begin with.

Vulnerability wasn’t something that Eskel knew well, or was even comfortable with. The affection he shared between his brothers was rough, in line with the wolves that they were. Their life was hard. There wasn’t room for gentleness, or so they’d been taught.

But Eskel had seen it. He’d felt it in the way Aubry had touched him just the night before, so gentle and so very careful. No one had ever touched him like that before. He’d felt like the Wolf had flayed him to the bone, without so much as a word. Made him feel exposed and vulnerable. And, probably the strangest of all, safe. Eskel wanted to feel that again. And even more importantly, he wanted to learn how to give it back in return.

“Sometimes it’s alright not to be fine,” he murmured.

Aiden huffed a humourless chuckle that sounded a bit closer to a sob than a laugh. His fingers fingers curled against his knees, knuckles blanching white. The silence sat stiffly between them for a long time before the older man broke it with a harsh whisper. “Behave.”

“What?” Eskel startled with a frown. It didn’t take him long to realize the other Wolf wasn’t talking about him at all. In fact, he barely seemed to see him either. His eyes seemed to focus on middle space, on the nothingness somewhere between their two bodies.

“He took our will,” Aubry explained bitterly. Eskel swallowed thickly and settled in for what he assumed would be an uncomfortable confession. “He had complete control. He could do whatever he wanted and we couldn’t stop him. He broke us open, toyed with what he found inside. Made us behave.”

Eskel bit back a curse. As much as he wished he could bring that bastard back from the dead just so he could rip him to pieces with his own bare hands, his rage wouldn’t help anything right now, least of all Aubry.

Gently, Eskel settled his hand on top of Aubry’s closest, using his other to lightly cup the back of the man’s neck and to draw him closer. The Wolf went willingly, slumping forward until his head was pressed against Eskel’s shoulder. He felt fingers gripping at the back of his gambeson, others hooking through the straps that kept the front buckled closed. “That’s it, Wolf,” he murmured as he felt the other man’s shoulders start to tremble. “That’s it, let it out.”

The shaking got a lot worse before it got better, but when Aubry finally pulled away, his eyes were dry. Eskel would have let go and move back to give the man some space, but there was still a hand wrapped around the front of his gambeson and it tightened when he tried. “Can we just—” Aubry broke off, licking his lips. “Can we sit here, just a little longer?”

“Long as you like,” Eskel murmured.

‘Long as you like’ ended up being about an hour, by which point Eskel’s back was cramping from the way he was sitting and goosebumps broke out along Aubry’s bare chest from how cold the room was. A storm had rolled in over the Keep while they sat there, the winds rattling the windowpanes and sneaking in through every crack to chill the air.

Aubry was subdued as they both changed into warmer clothes and headed down to the dining hall. They passed Vesemir on the stairs, with Aiden a silent shadow behind him. The elder Witcher paused to clap a hand lightly to Aubry’s uninjured shoulder in a silent question. Aubry nodded with a weak smile.

Eskel cast a glance to the other Witcher who was hovering against the stone like he wished he could disappear into it. Hells, the Cat looked like he was being marched to his own execution. He could hear the man’s heart racing, nearly triple speed to the three Wolves. He watched as Vesemir gave Aubry’s shoulder another squeeze and then headed on up the stairs, and Aiden followed meekly after.

The stairwell was wide enough that even broad shouldered Witchers could pass each other easily but Aubry purposefully crowded the Cat against the wall, forcing him to stop or shove him aside. Eskel paused and watched as the bigger Witcher gripped the back of Aiden’s neck and forced him to look up from his boots. Eskel could hear the Cat’s heart stutter and begin to race even faster. He couldn’t see Aiden’s face, but he could see the way his fingers were shaking and picking at the frayed edge of his shirt where it poked out under his jerkin. He glanced up, seeing Vesemir waiting on the landing, watching. Then Aubry smirked and knocked his forehead against Aiden’s, hard enough that Eskel could hear the impact.

“Ow,” the Cat grumbled, a scowl pulling his brows down.

“Now we’re even,” Aubry drawled. The Cat huffed through his nose, but his fingers had settled and his heart rate too. Aubry gave the man’s neck another squeeze and slipped past him, once again falling into step with Eskel.

They found the others in the dining hall, finishing up a meal. Eskel slide in next to Lambert, where the youngest Wolf was glaring holes through his bowl. He crowded close, practically shoving the man off the edge of the bench so Lambert had no choice but to lean against him or tip off the end. “Fuck off,” the man growled, jamming his elbow into Eskel’s side.

Eksel poked him back in retaliation, jabbing his finger between the man’s ribs right where he knew it was ticklish. Lambert flinched like he’d been stabbed and fought back just as dirty by grabbing Eskel’s tail and yanking him backwards in an attempt to tip him off the bench. Thankfully Eskel was tall enough that he could brace against the underside of the table. However Lambert yanked hard enough that instead of bracing, his knees slammed into the wood, knocking soup bowls into both Geralt and Jaskier’s laps. Both men leapt to their feet with such forced that it upended the whole table.

Eskel felt himself falling backwards and then his ass hit stone as the bench tipped, Lambert landing beside him with a grunt. Eskel looked up, expecting to find the entire table coming down on top of them. Instead, he found Aubry with one boot on either side of the upturned bench, having caught the table before it fully flipped.

“Nice one, little wolf,” Geralt drawled, brushing potato off his gambeson. Eskel took one look at Jaskier’s incredulous face as he stared down at his soup soaked breeches; to Geralt’s resignation; to Lambert whose ears were burning red with embarrassment; and finally to Aubry, whose eyes sparkled with his smothered amusement, and he burst out laughing.

“Yeah, laugh it up. You’re not the one covered in venison,” Jaskier scolded, but a smile was threatening on his face and he was losing the battle against it.

“I don’t know. Think it’s a good look, songbird,” Eskel chuckled, raising himself up on his elbows.

“Scoundrel,” the bard scolded, waggling a finger at Eskel. “Let’s see how you like it,” he added, flicking a piece of carrot at Eskel’s face. He snatched it out of the air and popped it in his mouth, chewing obnoxiously and open mouthed.

“Disgusting. What were you, raised by wolves?” the bard chastised, the toothy grin on his face at war with his stern tone.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Aubry rumbled. Eskel found his feet kicked off the bench so the older Wolf could flip it upright again, sitting down on it sideways.

“Now, don’t you start too,” Jaskier said. He turned his lecturing finger on Aubry. “I was hoping for at least one ally this winter spent amongst all these uncultured barbarians. Vesemir excluded of course.”

“Hey,” Geralt protested.

“Yes, I’m including you too, darling,” Jaskier teased, turning on the white haired Witcher. “Admit it, you’re had absolutely no idea what to do with all the silverware at that faculty dinner I dragged you to in Oxenfurt.” Geralt growled softly, snapping at the bard’s finger playfully.

Eskel chuckled, shifting a little so he could plant his boots against Lambert’s back when the youngest Witcher sat back down on the bench. Lambert grabbed his ankle, swiftly yanked the boot off his foot, flipped it upright, and then dumped his bowl of soup into it. “The fuck?” Eskel exclaimed, staring dumbly at his boot. “You poured soup in my boot.”

“Stop being an annoying prick then,” Lambert grumbled as he grabbed up the spilled bowls and stomping into the kitchen. Eskel sighed, looking mournfully in his boot as he slide into the bench beside Aubry. He was never gonna get the smell of venison out of the leather, which was ironic since they were made from the same animal.

Lambert returned with four steaming bowls of soup, setting one down for everyone but Eskel. He shrugged off both Jaskier and Aubry’s thanks with embarrassed growls, dropping down beside Eskel. A spoon was dropped into his boot, landing with a wet splat. “Eat up,” Lambert drawled.

______________________________

“You can’t just avoid ‘em for the rest of the fuckin’ winter,” Lambert had grumbled as they strode back up to the Keep. Aiden wouldn’t admit to dragging his feet, but that would have been a blatant lie. His languid pace had made Lambert double back more than one, clearly trying to stifle his annoyance.

But the storm was insistent and the wind was swirling snow up from the ground to spit it back up in their faces. The vast unheated entrance hall felt fair balmy in comparison, but that warmth disappear the moment Aiden saw Vesemir step into the hall ahead of them. “Geralt and Jaskier are in the dining hall,” the older Witcher said to Lambert. “Go on, I need a word with Aiden,” he added when the younger Witcher hesitated.

Lambert hesitated but a warning look from Vesemir had his mouth snapping shut again. He cast a look at Aiden before heading towards the kitchen. Aiden stamped down the ridiculous impulse to grab Lambert’s jacket and followed Vesemir as the man led him up the winding staircase. The heavy feeling in his gut got worse with every step. He felt like a fucking child again, about to get a strapping for whatever latest mischief he’d gotten himself into.

He couldn’t even look Aubry in the eye when they met him and Eskel on the stairs. He tried to slip by without making a fuss but of course the Wolf wouldn’t just let him pass in peace. He slipped a little when the bigger man crowded into his space, a heavy hand on the back of his neck squeezing. The guilt swooped in his belly like stepping through a portal as he took in the split nose, the bruising under the man’s eyes.

The pain that cracked through the front of his head when Aubry clacked their forehead togetherwas dull and startling. “Now we’re even,” the tall Wolf rumbled, a gentle smile in his eyes. Aiden huffed, rolling his eyes, but his heartbeat did slow and stopped trying to crack his ribs from the inside.

The heavy feeling didn’t go away as he continued to follow Vesemir up the stairs. If anything it got worse as the master Witcher led him out onto a floor that he hadn’t been on before. It was two floors below Lambert’s. The door opened into a large cozy living area. A large hearth sat against the far wall, with two large armchairs and a small table sat in front of it. A couch was in the other corner, surrounded by bookshelves. A few weapons were raked on the wall by another door through which Aiden could see the corner of a large four poster bed. This had to be Vesemir’s personal quarters.

“Sit,” the man ordered as he crouched by the hearth and started building a fire. Aiden sunk into the chair closest to the door, sitting stiffly with his hands in his lap. He picked at a hangnail as he listened to Vesemir get the fire going and moved about the room. “Have you ever played Fox-and-Geese?” the man asked suddenly, placing something on the table between them.

Aiden’s eyes snapped up from his hands, briefly to the wooden board Vesemir had set on the table and then up to the Witcher himself as the man sat in the chair opposite, a small leather bag in his hand. “W-what?” he stuttered.

The older Witcher snorted. “I’m not gonna beat you, lad,” he drawled, untying the bag and dumping a pile of small stones onto the table with a clatter. “And I’m not going to kick you down the mountain after this storm either, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I—then what are we doing here?”

“We’re playing a game,” the man said simply as he started placing stones on the board.

“I don’t understand,” Aiden protested weakly.

“The rules are simple. I’m sure you’ll pick it up quickly.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he replied sharply.

Vesemir looked at him calmly, pausing with a smooth white stone in his hand. “Indulge an old man,” he drawled. “None of the other pups have the head for the subtleties of this particular game. It’s been a while since I’ve had a worthy opponent.”

Aiden swallowed thickly, choking slightly on one of the man’s words as it lodged in his throat. “Alright,” he said cautiously, still not convinced that there wasn’t a catch to all this.

Vesemir set down the last stone; a rust red oval on Aiden’s side. The board was carved with five squares creating a cross shape. Within each of those squares was an additional four squares, each with a line bisecting this to create a dizzying pattern. Seventeen small white stones were arranged at each corner of the squares on Vesemir’s side, extending up the sides of the middle squares. A single red stone sat on Aiden’s side.

“The geese try to use their superior numbers to trap the fox so he can no longer move,” Vesemir explained, pointing at the stones. “The object of the fox is to remove enough geese from the board to make it impossible for the geese to trap him. The fox does this by jumping over a goose to an empty square, then the white stone is removed from the board. Does this make sense?”

Aiden nodded and Vesemir hummed with approval. “As I said, the rules themselves are simple. What makes the game interesting is the strategy of it.” He reached over the board, moving one of the white stones diagonally to a new square. He then sat back, gesturing a hand towards Aiden.

The game was over quickly. Aiden was only able to take a few of Vesemir’s pieces before he found his fox hemmed into a corner. “Fuck,” Aiden huffed. Vesemir chuckled softly, eyes crinkling a little around the corners, and reset the board.

After another game, Vesemir put a kettle over the fire and made a sweet black tea that tasted like lavender and bergamot. The storm howled against the shutters, whistling through the ruined areas of the stone that made the Keep moan like a living creature. Aiden managed to win two games, but Vesemir corralled him efficiently more often than not. The conversation was stilted to begin with, but they quickly found a rhythm. They spoke on a variety of topics. Vesemir was incredibly well read, and they spent two full games discussing the works of a particular Redanian poet.

“How did you learn to play?” Aiden found himself asking as he reset the board once again.

“Long before you were born,” Vesemir drawled. “I was a young man, not even a decade on the Path. Took a basilisk contract with another Witcher outside of Ard Carraigh. Ended up with a broken leg and most of my insides on the outside.” Vesemir sipped his tea, eyes far away. “He saved my life,” he continued. “Got me to an inn, patched me up. Stayed the week I was bedridden, kept me from going out of my mind with boredom. He taught me.”

Vesemir hummed, watching as Aiden placed the final stone into place. “Now, it does no good to only train the offensive skills,” he added, spinning the board around neatly to put the white stones in front of Aiden. “The geese can only move forward, diagonally forward, or sideways. You have the first move.”

They played another four games before Vesemir finally called it, stating that he could hear Aiden’s stomach grumbling from across the table. “Get yourself something to eat,” he ordered as he tipped the board over, sliding the stones neatly into the bag.

Aiden stood when Vesemir did, watching as the older Witcher stowed the game back on one of the shelves and led him back down the stairs. He paused at the entrance to the front hall, forcing Aiden to stop or run into him. “I may take issues with the Cat School’s ethics and methods,” he rumbled. “But I’ve been known to make one or two exceptions over the years. You’re welcome within these walls, lad. Don’t think that you’re not.”

He felt his throat bob as he swallowed, and Aiden nodded stiffly. A hand clapped briefly to his shoulder, squeezing gently. “I think Kiyan would be proud of the man you’ve become,” the Wolf Witcher murmured before his hand dropped to his side.

Aiden startled, wide eyes snapping up to the other Witcher. “You knew him?” he whispered.

Spiderwebs of wrinkles crinkling the corners Vesemir’s eyes. “Who do you think taught me how to play that damned game?” he drawled. He then turned and walked away, leaving Aiden at the base of the stairs with the distinct feeling that he’d just passed some sort of test.

He found fresh bread and smoked trout in the kitchen pantry. Licking salt from his fingers, he went in search of the rest of the pack. He eventually found them all in a small room off the library. There wasn’t anything in here but two low couches and a heavy cork dartboard at the far end. Aubry was lounging on one of the couches. Eskel sat next to him, elbows on knees as he flipped a slender blade through his fingers with practised ease. He wasn’t even looking at it, instead watching Lambert and Jaskier with intense scrutiny.

The bard stood a fair distance back from the target, a hitless blade in his hand as Lambert kicked at his ankles to fix his stance. Geralt sat on the other couch, chin resting in his palm as he watched. Both Aubry and Geralt’s eyes flicked briefly to him, the former smiling and the latter expressionless as ever. Aiden just crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, unsure if he’d be welcome.

“Relax your shoulders,” Lambert scolded, poking Jaskier between the shoulder blades. The bard scowled at him, but did as he was told. “The mountain’s startin’ to thaw, Buttercup. Fuckin’ throw it,” the Wolf growled.

The knife spun through the air, slamming point first into the outer blue ring of the target. Jaskier let out a whoop, punching both fists up into the air. “Congratulations, you’re less shite than you were last season,” Lambert rumbled, probably the closest he ever came to outright praise. He yanked the blade from the target, eyes sliding past the bard’s shoulder to where Aiden was hovering by the door. Something lit up in those golden irises what made something warm kindle under Aiden’s ribs. “See you survived the old man’s lecturin’,” the Wolf rumbled as he stepped into Aiden’s space.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he muttered, scuffing his toe against the rough stone floor.

“Senility must be makin’ him lose his touch,” Lambert drawled, flipping the knife around to offer it hilt first. The blade winked in the candlelight and Aiden shook his head, pulling his arms in closer to his chest. “What, don’ tell me you’re passin’ up a chance to show off,” the Wolf wheedled, waggling the knife under Aiden’s nose. “I know you. You al’ays were unnervin’ly good with your knives.”

“Key part of that is ‘were’,” Aiden mumbled, glaring at Lambert and hopefully he’d pick up on the silent warning. Warning or pleading, he wasn’t totally sure yet.

“Come on, Cat,” Eskel called out from the couch. “It’s practically a right of passage here. Even the bard had to learn.”

“Yeah, I mean, you can’t possibly be worse than I am,” the bard added helpfully from his perch on the couch arm beside Geralt.

“Don’t bet on it,” Aiden muttered, digging his nails into his biceps. It was quiet enough that the others Witchers could hear, but Lambert was standing a lot closer. The Wolf frowned, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. His gaze swept across Aiden’s face, settling on what the Cat knew was where his right eye had been, and grimaced.

“No one’s gonna care if you’re shit at first,” he murmured. “’N you’re gonna hafta relearn eventually. No time like the present.” He wiggled the knife again. Aiden huffed, glaring preverbal daggers at the shorter Wolf but he took the literal dagger from the man’s hand.

He was lucky that he hadn’t lost his dominant eye but it had still been a struggle to adjust to the depth perception issues. Swordplay had come quickly but this was a different kind of accuracy. He fell into the stance easily, his body remembering like it remembered how to breathe. The blade spun smoothly through the air and—and bounce off the stone wall two hands to the right of the target, ricocheting back towards them. Jaskier yelped, yanking his feet up onto the safety of the couch, even though the knife skidded to a half a full three feet away.

“Fuck,” Aiden spat, embarrassment a sick knot in his stomach.

Something tapped lightening against the back of his thigh. He glanced down to see Eskel leaning over the arm of the couch, the narrow blade he’d been playing with held outstretched. There wasn’t any pity in the scarred Witcher’s eyes, which was probably for the best. On the surface, it just seemed like a nice gesture. Underneath, Aiden knew handing him a bladed weapon was a huge show of trust. He nodded, not trusting his words, and took the knife. He threaded it through his fingers, letting the familiar sensation settle him. He flipped it back and forth a few times, getting used to the weight.

Breathe. Find centre. Breathe.

This time the knife slammed firmly into blue ring of the target, a few inches off from where the bard had hit. A few more throws and he was hitting the yellow ring consistently. He bared his teeth and sent two flying in swift succession. Both slammed firmly into the black. A thrum of adrenaline spiked through his chest and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he added the last three knives, throws clean and precise. They joined the others in a tidy little cluster in the centre of the target.

He got creative after that. Most of his shots were shaky. He didn’t miss the target again, but more than a few landed far outside even the outermost ring. He threw underhand, threw cross body with a half turn, threw three at the same time from between his knuckles. Only two stuck on that one.

He decided to push his luck a little and do the drop kick trick that used to be his favourite. The first time he miscalculated the throw and the knife stuck into the tow of his boot, just nicking the top of his big toe. He ignored the bard’s gasp and yanked the blade out of the leather. The second throw hit perfectly. His boot kicked off the hilt just right and a breath later the blade slammed into the black, only slightly off centre. Behind him, Eskel gave a low whistle. Someone clapped and he figured it was probably the bard.

Lambert was standing in the middle between the two couches when he returned from retrieving the blades, hands on hips and the most infuriatingly smug look on his face. “If you say ‘I told you so’,” Aiden warned, dropping the bundle of knives into the man’s waiting hands.

“Well, I kinda did,” the Wolf drawled. Aiden retaliated by slapping him on the ass, hard. The sound cracked through the tiny room and Lambert jumped, cursing a blue streak as the others snickered. Aiden slouched against the wall beside the couch Aubry was perched on, smirking in the face of Lambert’s glare.

“That was impressive,” Aubry murmured as they watched Lambert march the knives in a purposeful line from the top of the target down to the bottom.

“Adapt or die, right?” Aiden replied drolly.

Aubry snorted harshly. “If we had recruitment posters, that would be the slogan,” he drawled.

Now it was Aiden turn to snort. He perched on the couch arm by the Wolf’s elbow, taking in the bruises that were already fading under his eyes. “How’s the face?”

“You set it good. Barely a bump,” Aubry murmured, fingering his nose. “And if you apologize one more fucking time, I’m tying you to that board and letting the bard use you for target practise,” he said sternly as Aiden opened his mouth to do just that. Aiden flushed, snapping his jaw shut with a soft click. Aubry patted him on the knee. “Good kitty,” he murmured, so soft that it wouldn’t stray past the couch. However, there was someone else sitting on that couch, who choked on nothing as he tried not to laugh.

“Fucking asshole,” Aiden growled playfully, shoving Aubry hard enough that he jostled into Eskel. And it didn’t go unnoticed that as the two Wolf Witcher’s righted themselves, Eskel’s hand lingered a little longer than necessary on Aubry’s lower back. Nor did he miss the way Aubry’s hand squeezed Eskel’s knee after he used it to leaver himself upright.

The knives got put away once the drinking started, and they all migrated into the library. Geralt claimed the larger couch again, sprawling out with the bard tucked against his chest. Eskel, after he got the fire going, clearly decided that getting up again was too much work and just sprawled out on the rug in front of the hearth, pillowing his head against his arms. Lambert had quickly taken the love seat, leaving Aubry to step around Eskel’s long body to tuck himself into the armchair he’d sat in before.

Aiden poked and prodded at Lambert until he could slip in behind him. There was a lot of grumbling and wiggling about until Aiden finally got the younger man pinned, his legs wrapped across the younger man’s torso. “Stop it,” the Wolf huffed as he struggled to unwrap Aiden’s legs from around him. For such a stocky man, he was deceptively slippery. “Godsdamit, cut it out. Gonna kick my fuckin’ teeth in,” the man snapped, grabbing both the Cat’s ankles in a bruising grip.

Aiden surpassed a huff and let his legs hang limply in Lambert’s grip. He was used to Lambert accepting his affection without really returning it. Overt displays of affection wasn’t really something Lambert did often. He did it in other ways, like mending Aiden’s armour or doing the cooking which was he was surprisingly good at. And it made sense while they were on the Path. Aiden certainly didn’t want himself on the wrong end of a pyre or a pitchfork, almost had a time or two, but this was the Wolves’ home. This was probably the one fucking place on this godforsaken continent that they could be themselves, without fear of judgement or reprisal.

Muttering darkly under his breath, Lambert grabbed ahold of Aiden’s boots and yanked. Before Aiden could blink, his boots were tossed somewhere behind them, and his socked feet were settled onto Lambert’s lap. Strong thumbs dug into the arches of his feet, painful enough to pull a hissing breath through his teeth. “Relax,” Lambert grumbled, working ups fingers up either side of Aiden’s Achilles tendon.

“Easy, that’s the one that harpy bitch severed,” Aiden complained, nullified with the continued physical contact. Lambert’s hands gentled, sweeping carefully over the lumpy scar tissue, easing the soft ache Aiden hadn’t even realized was there.

“First mine, now the Cat’s. You just realizing some sorta boot fetish, little Wolf?” Eskel drawled lazily, lifting his head just enough to see over his bicep. He looked like an overgrown house cat, all curled with his back to the fire.

“Shaddup,” Lambert snarled, downing a deep swig from his vodka.

“Whaddya mean?” Aiden asked curiously, wiggling his toes a little against Lambert’s palm. He got a slap to the underside of his foot in reprimand.

“He dumped soup in my boot at supper,” the Wolf grumbled.

“What the fuck for?”

“He was bein’ annoyin’,” Lambert shrugged, reaching down to snatch up the vodka.

Aiden snorted, making grabby hands at the bottle. The Wolf just raised an eyebrow and took a long pull, mischief twinkling. “Hey,” Aiden protested, baring his teeth playfully as he sat up and made a snatch for it. He felt fingers tangle in his curls and yank his head back, pulling him away.

It wasn’t vicious. It wasn’t even that abrupt or painful. It was slow and playful and something they’d done a hundred times before. And Aiden used to love it. He used to love to feel Lambert’s fingers tangled in his hair, forcing him to bare his throat in a submission that he gave freely. He used to love it when Lambert took what he wanted, knowing Aiden was willingly to give in. Now it was just another thing that had been ruined.

He barely even registered that he moved. It was like he blinked and he was standing over Lambert, a hand pinning the Wolf down by the throat. Blood trickled from the corner of Lambert’s mouth as he stared wide eyed, surrounded by the shattered remains of the vodka bottle.

The wind howled against the library windows but it did nothing to fill the silent void that dominated the room. “Aiden,” Lambert whispered, half question, half prayer. And Aiden couldn’t take it. He didn’t even know where he was going, he just ran.

He didn’t make it further than the outer hallway before something took him to the ground in a careful and controlled tackle. It was almost gentle, the way he was scooped up against a broad chest. His ass hit stone and it didn’t even hurt, that’s how in control the bigger man was. Aiden didn’t even fight it, couldn’t fight it. He just crumpled, letting the Wolf manhandle him. A hand cupped the back of his neck, tucking his face against a collarbone that smelled of cedar and mountain air. He didn’t even realize he was crying until he ran out of air and his next inhale sounded more like a sob.

He could hear voices above and around him, softly. One was hesitant, the other soothing. Then arms were scooping underneath him and lifting like he weighed nothing but a feather. He lost track of time a little until he was being settled down on something soft. Then arms were once again wrapping around him, pulling him back against a chest. This time he inhaled citrus and cinnamon and the sharp bite of decoction alcohol.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, but eventually he felt himself slump, energy finally spent. A hand slipped under his chin, slowly tilting his face up. Bright topaz eyes gazed down at him, so gentle and so worried. “You back with me?” Lambert murmured.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, squeezing his stinging eyes shut. He could barely keep his shit together these days. It was exhausting. And when his control failed….well. He sat back, pushing away from the younger man and hugging his knees into his chest. Lambert settled against the headboard across from him, watching him cautiously. They sat quietly for a long while, the storm outside raging in tandem with the storm inside his head. “Fuck. ‘M sorry,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. His fingers caught on the eyepatch and he ripped it off with a growl, tossing it aside.

He heard Lambert sigh and then hands reached slowly for him. “Come ‘ere,” the younger Witcher murmured. One grabbed the front of his jerkin, the other behind, and he was dragged forward until he settled gently between Lambert’s legs. Hesitant hands soothed up his arms and when he didn’t thrown them off, they tightened and pulled him down until Aiden was settled comfortable against Lambert’s chest. Aiden buried his face against the man’s bicep, letting Lambert wrap arms around him, and let himself drift.

By the time he resurfaced again, it was dark out. The room was bathed in warm light from the fire crackling away cheerily in the hearth. His eyes and throat felt like they were filled with sand and his head was pounding against his temples. He untucked his face from Lambert’s neck, scooting back so he could rest his chin on the man’s sternum and look up into his face.

“Hey,” the Wolf murmured. “How’re you feelin’?”

Aiden groaned, planting his forehead against Lambert’s chest. “Feel like I’ve been kicked in the head,” he muttered. He felt a soft chuckle vibrate up through the Wolf’s sternum. A hand settled against the back of his head, starting to card through his hair before vanishing.

“Sorry,” the Wolf murmured.

“No, it’s…that’s fine,” Aiden swallowed.

“What was it then? Before. What set you off?”

“I’m not a fucking bomb, Lambert,” he snarled, nails digging into his palms.

“Naw, you’re a gods-cursed firecracker,” the Wolf drawled. “Burnin’ my fingers ‘n singeing my eyebrows even as you’re lightin’ up my sky.”

Godsdamn this man. “That’s so fucking stupid,” Aiden whined, tucking his face back against Lambert’s chest so the other man couldn’t see his eye began to water with sudden tears. He felt Lambert chuckle again, and then the hands came back, one settling on Aiden’s mid back, the other against the nap of his neck. Not pulling or massaging, just gentle pressure. “He liked pulling my hair,” Aiden whispered. “‘And…and he made me fight. He made me kill for him, Lambert, he—”

He wanted to say more, but his throat closed up and sealed any other words inside. Lambert just shushed him, pulling him a little closer. Aiden crawled up until he could bury his face against the side of the Wolf’s neck, surrounding himself in the man’s scent. Lips brushed his temple, featherlight. Not even a kiss. Just a gentle touch. “I gotcha, wildcat,” his Wolf whispered.

______________________________

Aubry leapt over Lambert, racing after the fleeing Cat. Aiden didn’t even fight when he scooped the slimmer man up, taking them carefully to the ground. He cradled the man close, feeling his body shake with silent sobs. Gods, could this day get any worse. Just one thing after another, piling up on both of them and spilling over to stain everyone around them.

Boots scrambled to a stop and he looked up to find Lambert standing a few feet away, eyes wide. He hesitated, took a step, stopped. “I—fuck.” The youngest Witcher licked his lips nervously, eyes flicking back and forth between Aubry and the man in his arms.

“Come take him,” he said softly.

“N—I don’t wanna—he won’t—,” the man stuttered.

“It’s you he’ll want, once he comes out of it,” he interrupted sternly. “Come on, pup. Come take your Cat,” he pushed when Lambert still hesitated. The Wolf crouched down, slipping his arms under Aiden’s knees and around the back of his shoulders. Aiden whined and Aubry felt a scrambling at his chest. “It’s alright,” he soothed, untangling Aiden’s long fingers from the front of his jacket. “Lambert’s got you from here. You’re alright.” That seemed to quiet the man, who let himself be hoisted into Lambert’s arms and carry him up the stairs.

A hand reached into his periphery and he let Geralt pull him to his feet. Jaskier was hovering by the door, Eskel a silent mountain behind him. “I think we could all use some supper,” the bard said quietly. Geralt hummed in agreement.

“I’ll clean up the glass,” Eskel offered before ducking back into the library.

“I’ll help,” Aubry murmured, slipping after the tall Wolf. It really wasn’t a two person job but no one called him out on it.

The clean up was quick, with Eskel ducking out briefly to return with a rag to sop up the vodka. Aubry perched on the arm of the chair he’d vacated, watching as wrapped the stacked shards of glass into the rag and tied the bundle neatly. The bundle was tossed in the corner with a crunch and Eskel popped another log on the fire. “Are you alright?” the younger Wolf asked quietly as he coaxed the fire to catch on the fresh firewood.

“Yeah,” Aubry sighed. “Just a bad day.”

Eskel hummed, moving to sit crosslegged with his back against the other armchair. “I get that,” he replied softly. “Had a lotta a bad days with this.” He waved a vague hand towards the scarred side of his face. “Would sneak up on me, yah know? Everythin’ would be fine and then…then it wouldn’t be.” He was rubbing a hand subconsciously across his scars as he spoke, watching the flames lick higher against the wood.

“They’re aching again, aren’t they?”

Eskel startled, hand freezing against his face. He pulled it back into his lap like he only just realized he’d been touching them. He shrugged. “Storms make it worse,” he said simply.

“I can…again. If you want,” Aubry offered. He thought Eskel might refuse but then he nodded. Aubry slid down to sit in the chair properly, patting the base of it. This time Eskel didn’t hesitate and he shuffled over on his knees to sit between Aubry’s legs, back to the chair.

Aubry started slow, just like he had when they’d been piss drunk and unable to see straight just the night before. He placed his hands lightly on Eskel’s shoulders, soothing up the tense muscles to either side of the Wolf’s neck. He cupped the man’s jaw, then tilting his head gently to the left. The scars that seamed Eskel’s face and neck, looking even more red in the glow of the firelight.

He soothed his thumb into the muscles in Eskel’s neck first, working his way up into the joint of his jaw. Up over the man’s temple, over his brow bone, back down his jaw and neck, then started the cycle again. Each repetition he added a little more pressure, until Eskel was practically melting into his leg.

“You know, I never thanked you for what you did for me after my second Trial,” the younger man said softly.

“You remember that?” Aubry asked in surprise, soothing down a prominent ridge that tucked up under Eskel’s jaw. Usually they didn’t. Sure, they might remember flashes; a cold cloth against fevered skin, a soft voice soothing away the nightmares. But they never remembered more than that. They never remembered him.

“Mmhmm,” Eksel hummed. “It helped a lot.”

“I’m glad,” Aubry murmured. Eskel hummed again, nuzzling his face into Aubry’s palm. Something warm kindling under his ribs and Aubry let his fingers curl under the left side of Eskel’s jaw, the only part of his fingers not trapped against his knee by the weight of the man’s head. He gently tugged the tie from Eskel’s hair, letting the dark locks fall free across his lap. He carefully carded his fingers through it, working out the snags and knots.

Jaskier’s voice preceded him and Geralt but it was soft and not startling. He and the white haired Witcher slipped back into the library, both carrying four plates and bottles of ale tucked under their armpits. They slowed when they caught sight of the two wolves by the fire. “Are we intruding?” the bard asked softly.

“Naw, ’s fine,” Eskel answered, not even bothering to lift his head from Aubry’s knee.

The bard placed two of the plates on a little table by Aubry’s elbow, casting a fond look down at Eskel before retreating to join Geralt on the couch. “I took a plate up for them,” he replied when Aubry asked about Lambert and Aiden. “They’re in for the night, I think. Aiden looked absolutely exhausted, poor thing.” Geralt grunted in agreement and then went back to eating.

Eskel pulled himself upright, cracking his neck and looking a little dazed. He murmured a thanks when Aubry passed him a plate and returned to his seat. The rest of the evening was spent in idle chatter and a little music later on after Jaskier retrieved the lute Vesemir gave him. It was still bittersweet to see the instrument in hands other than Rennes’, but Vesemir had been right when he said it was good to see it played again.

Nobody had the energy to stay up late and after a couple rounds of yawns, everyone called it a night. Geralt and Jaskier bee them goodnight, Geralt’s room on the same floor as Lambert’s. Eskel paused when they reached Aubry’s door, next-door to his own, looking like he wanted to say something but then didn’t. “Sleep well,” was what he said instead. Aubry latched fingers onto the man’s sleeve as he turned to go. Eskel looked back with an eyebrow raised, waiting.

“Stay?” he asked softly. ‘Because I sleep better when you’re there’ went unsaid but probably not unheard. Eskel’s eyes softened, a small smile playing against the unscarred side of his lips. He flipped his hand around, soothing his thumb along Aubry’s palm up to his pulse point.

“Alright,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fox-and-Geese, or Halatafl in Old Norse (translates roughly to Tail Board, I believe), is thought to have originated in Scandinavia as far back as the early 14th century. It has many different versions, including ones from Nepal, Netherlands, Germany, France, and Italy.


	9. Chapter 9

Lambert sighed, cracking his neck and wiping sweat back into his hair. The training yard had taken hours to clear, piling the snow from the latest storm neatly into against the wall. Vesemir had disappeared with Aiden that morning at breakfast, leaving the rest of the Wolves to do the work. It was probably just as well. The Cat had been twitchy all morning. They’d had another bad night, with Lambert being woken up more than once by the whimpering. Three and a half months into the winter and Aiden’s nightmares were finally starting to get better, but Lambert still got woken up usually every night. 

He was glad Aiden seemed to be talking to Vesemir. He certainly wasn’t one to know how to deal with shit in healthy ways. His way usually involved drinking until he couldn’t think about them anymore. Rinse and repeat. But…hells, he’d seen some shit. He’d been old enough by the time that Witcher had invoked the Law of Surprise to know exactly what kind of monster his old man was. Still had a few scars, long faded with age and lost amongst the myriad of others he’d claimed on the Path.

Yet for all the shit he’d been through in his life, torture was a specific luxury he’d fortunately avoided. Sure, he’d been roughed up by city watches and bullies in taverns with a hate on for yellow eyed freaks. But he’d never dealt with systematic, deliberate pain. He hadn’t had his mutations twisted and used against him. He wasn’t sure how Aubry was doing so well. Besides that incident on the training yard a few months ago, he seemed…fine. He seemed so well balanced, considering his time spent in the mage’s hands was more than triple that of Aiden’s. Maybe he was dealing with it better. Or maybe it was only a matter of time.

“Come on, little wolf,” Eskel said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and breaking him out of his revery. He dragged him through the Keep with an arm slung around his shoulders, through into the kitchen. Geralt and Aubry noticeably didn’t follow them and Lambert wondered how the scarred Wolf had managed that without him noticing. Eskel and Geralt did have the freaky ability for silent communication. Eskel and Aubry had certainly been spending enough time together. Perhaps they’d picked it up too.

Lambert crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway as he watched Eskel putter around, pulling out wine and various spices. “Make yourself useful and get that fire rekindled,” the older Wolf ordered.

“What’er you makin’?” Lambert asked as he tossed far too much kindling into the hearth and forced it to burn with Igni.

“Mulled wine,” was the reply as Eskel started uncorking bottles and began pouring them into a large cauldron.

“And you couldn’ do it by yourself,” he stated. He didn’t make it a question, he knew Eskel was more than capable of dumping booze and spices into a pot. And perhaps Lambert could be a bit dense—apparently Aiden had flirted with him for a solid month before finally corralling him after that drowners contract—but he wasn’t that stupid. And he was used to Eskel using tasks to corner him into talking about difficult things.

“Wanted to see how you were doing,” the taller man asked, not even bothering to hide his ulterior motive.

“‘M fine,” he muttered with a shrug.

“Liar,” the other Wolf drawled, not even bothering to turn around. Lambert just shrugged. Eskel’s broad shoulders bunched as he sighed. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy, having Aiden rise from the dead after six years thinking otherwise. And now, what with—.”

“Clean your fuckin’ ears. I said I’m fine,” he snapped sharply, starting to get annoyed.

“And I’m saying you weren’t,” Eskel said calmly, finally turning to face him. He leaned back against the table, big hands curling around the edge of it. “You weren’t fine after Aiden died. In fact you were a mess. You got reckless and stupid and—”

“Tell me what you really think,” Lambert muttered.

“You scared the shit outta me,” Eskel growled, eyes flashing. He didn’t raise his voice, he knew better to do that around Lambert, but the worry and pain laced under the snarl still had Lambert shrinking in on himself. “You scared all of us. Would you have even sent word you weren’t wintering here if Geralt hadn’t run into you hunting Karadin?” the Wolf demanded and Lambert flinched because they both knew the answer to that. “You didn’t let us help—”

“The fuck would you have done?” Lambert interrupted, getting angry again. “Geralt helped me kill Karadin. There wasn’t anything else to be done.”

“You could have let us grieve with you,” Eskel murmured.

Lambert snorted harshly. “You never even met him, Eskel. You didn’t have anything to grieve for.”

“My little brother was in pain. That not enough?”

He said it so simply, like it was a fact and in Eskel’s mind it probably was. He’d always been a bleeding heart, so similar to Aiden in that way. Ready to take shit pay or no pay to help out the poor farmer or the impoverished town or the little old herbalist in the middle of the woods. Lambert just shrugged, staring at the floorboards.

“Alright, alright. Grab me the spices from the pantry,” Eskel sighed, uncorking another bottle. Lambert grumbled something unflattering under his breath but crossed the kitchen and opened the pantry all the same. It took a bit of rummaging but he finally found a small cloth bag shoved way in the back. They looked like they’d been in here for an age. He opened it up, taking a big whiff. Immediately the scent of cinnamon and cloves overwhelmed him.

_A single honey brown curl flopped over topaz eyes that twinkled with a lazy mischief as they stared at him over a steaming mug in some backwater inn somewhere in north Aedirn. So close to home yet still too far away as the air started to turn bitter._

“I asked him t’ come, y’ know. Here, for th’ winter,” Lambert found himself telling the pickled eggs. It was easier that way. He could pretend he was just talking to himself, as the sudden urge to tell someone, anyone, bubbled up in his chest. “Had asked him afore, he al’ays said no but…I dunno. Tol’ him it wouldn’t matter he was a Cat. The old man is a bleedin’ heart, wouldn’ turn us away wit’ storms on our heels. But he still said no. I shoulda pushed harder.”

“You don’t get to blame yourself for what happened,” Eskel said reasonably.

“Yeah, tha’s what Aiden said.”

“Smart man.”

“Doesn’t mean shit.”

“Wasn’t your fault, little wolf.”

“Doesn’t mean _shit_ ,” he snarled, flinging the spice bag across the kitchen. He’d aimed for Eskel’s head but the man just plucked it from the air. “We promised we’d watch each others backs and I wasn’t there. The fuck does that say about me?!”

“It says you weren’t there, Lambert,” Eskel said with a sigh, setting the spices on the table. “Aiden’s a grown man capable of making his own decisions and you’re not responsible for them or for him. You can’t be everywhere all the time.”

“But I shoulda been,” Lambert rasped, feeling his eyes start to sting again. “That time, that one fuckin’ time, Eskel, I—I shoulda been there.”

“Thinking of ‘shoulda’s’ is just gonna eat you up from the inside, little wolf. Gotta let that shit go.”

“How?” Lambert exclaimed. “How the fuck can I? I—he’s fuckin’—everythin’ tha’s happened to him, tha’s—tha’s my fault, I—”

“Don’t” Eskel said, eyes flashing and sounding somehow soft and dangerous at the same time. “What happened to Aiden is not your fault.”

“But it’s always my fault,” he whispered. Eskel’s eyes snapped up to him, something painful twisting in his tawny eyes. Fuck, Lambert hadn’t meant to say that out loud. What was wrong with him, he wasn’t even drunk.

“Fucking hells, Lambert,” Eskel muttered as he crossed the kitchen in three long strides.

“No, don’t. Eskel, just—fuck.”

The bigger man already had arms around him. It pissed him off that Eskel had enough height on him to tuck Lambert’s head under his chin. It wasn’t like he was that short by any means and it was infuriating to be made to feel small like this. At least with Aiden, while the Cat may hold the monopoly on height, he was half Lambert’s width.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he grumbled after a few breaths ticked by and the arms around him didn’t loosen. He squirmed but all Eskel did was move a hand to cup the back of his skull, gently mashing his face against the front of the man’s gambeson. “Git off me, dickhead.”

“Not yet,” the man rumbled against his ear.

Lambert felt his eyes start to sting around the edges and he yanked at the back of Eskel’s jacket. “Seriously, Eskel, quit it.” He tried to get a hand up to latch onto the Wolf’s ponytail but he couldn’t quite reach.

“Think it’s time to let go, little wolf.”

“Let go of what, you? Because I’m fuckin’ tryin’,” Lambert grumbled, punching a fist into Eskel’s ribs. There wasn’t much weight behind it; he wasn’t trying to break the older man’s ribs. Yet. Eskel gave a rough chuckle, but he did finally let go.

“When’s the last time you had a proper night sleep?” he asked softly, keeping his hand on the back of Lambert’s neck. The younger Wolf huffed, rolling his eyes. The hand tightened warningly. “No, you don’t get to blow me off,” Eskel warned.

Lambert wrinkled his nose in mock disgust. “Wasn’t planning on ever doing that, ever. Fuckin’ pervert.”

“Don’t deflect,” Eskel scowled, giving him a little shake as amusement warred with scolding concern. “My room’s right below yours,” he added softly.

Normally a comment like that would have had him blushing, dreading exactly what kind of noises had been keeping the other Witcher awake. But now, he felt the blood drain from his face at the thought of the snarling nightmares that kept Aiden, and by default Lambert, from a full nights rest. “Shit,” he muttered.

“’S fine. We moved to the other side of the hall.”

“We? What is this ‘we’ shit?” Lambert frowned. To his astonishment, the tips of Eskel’s ears flushed a light pink and his eyes darted away nervously. Lambert felt his brow drawing even further downward. Then it clicked and he smirked. “So how long has that sleeping arrangement being going on for?” he asked wickedly.

Eskel glared, but Lambert just raised an eyebrow. The older Witcher sighed, shoulders bunching and relaxing. “It’s…new,” he mumbled.

“Can’t be that new,” Lambert leered. “It’s been, what, a month since you came to breakfast stinking of each other and him wearing one of your shirts.” After the first week or so in the castle everyones scents got muddled together from spending so much time in enclosed spaces. Yet now that he thought about it, Aubry and Eskel’s scents were a little more tightly entwined. Even now, he could smell something else underneath the earthy spice that was Eskel; something smoky, like cedar.

He felt a little thrum of satisfaction as he watched the blush creep further down Eskel’s neck and the taller man shifted uncomfortably. “Not as fun when the interrogation gets turned around, huh,” he scoffed.

Eskel huffed. “Not an interrogation, little wolf,” he sighed.

“Feels like one,” Lambert grumbled, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. It helped put a little bit more distance between him and his brother.

Eskel heaved another sigh. “Come on,” he said, turning towards the kitchen door and dragging Lambert along with him. There was a lot of grumbling but he did let the older man manhandle him out into the hall. “Got mulled wine started in the kitchen. Finish it?” Eskel asked as they passed Geralt. The man’s eyes flicked from Eskel to Lambert and then back before he grunted and headed towards the kitchen.

“This really isn’t helping the ‘blow me’ comment,” Lambert drawled as he was hustled into Eskel’s bedroom. He would have said more, but then he was shoved unceremoniously onto the bed. His boots were ripped off and furs were pulled up around him. Cedar smoke and nutmeg enveloped him. He tried to sit up, but a hand to the middle of his forehead shoved him flat again. “Eskel, what the fuck are—”

“Take a nap,” Eskel rumbled as he grabbed the book sitting on the side table and sprawled out into the chair by the guttering embers. A lazy flick of Igni sent it roaring again.

“Eskel—”

“Sleep, little wolf,” the man murmured, opening his book.

When Lambert woke, it was with a start, shattering glass and a drunken voice of a man long dead echoing through his head. The fire had settled to a low crackle and the chair beside it was empty. It took him a moment to realize that Eskel had moved and was sitting beside him on the bed, a third of the way through his book. “Been a long while since you had once of those dreams,” the man murmured, not looking up from his page.

Lambert grunted, swinging his legs out over the side of the bed. He scrubbed sleep from his eyes. “How long w’s I out?”

“Few hours,” Eskel replied, setting his book aside. “Feel better?”

Lambert just grunted again. His head felt stuffy and everything kind of ached. He stood, cracking his back as he stretched his arms over his head. “Fuckin’ starvin’,” he grumbled in leu of a proper response. Eskel chuckled gravely as he tossed Lambert’s boots across the bed.

Vesemir was in the kitchen baking, of all things. It was quite something, seeing the elder Wolf Witcher with his shirt rolled up to the elbows, showing off corded forearms covered with scars as he deftly kneaded dough. Vesemir took one look at them before tossing a couple of the pocket pies already baked and cooling on the sideboard in their direction. “Jaskier and Aiden are organizing the library,” the man rumbled.

“Where’s Geralt?” Eskel asked around a mouthful of pastry.

“Went hunting with Aubry.”

“How much longer do you think before we’re snowed in proper?”

“I’d give it a week. The storms are worse this year.”

Lambert stopped listening as soon as Vesemir said ‘Aiden’ and ‘library’, which was exactly where he found him. He heard Jaskier long before he saw him, weaving through the shelves towards the back of the library, were said bard was chatting at Aiden excitedly. He was going on about some dusty old poetry book with a peeling cover he’d found buried on the back shelf underneath an apocryphal bestiary out of Cintra. Aiden was perched on a windowsill, a small indulgent smile on his lips as he listened to the bard prattle on

He was backlit by the late afternoon sun, creating a golden halo about his messy curls. The gauntness in his face was gone, filled out again thanks to proper meals and regular training. He’d always been slender, but the whipcord leanness had been painful to see. Nothing left but muscle and bone. There was even a bit more colour to his skin, and his smile was untainted by strain or shadow that usually danced around the corners.

That soft smile broadened as he glanced up to Lambert, showing just a hint of sharpened fang. “Hey, Wolf,” the Cat murmured, something warm and wicked flickering behind slit pupil eyes.

Lambert was across the aisle in three strides, bracketing himself between Aiden’s legs. A flash of puzzlement was all the Cat had time for before Lambert had hands on his face and pulled him into a kiss. Aiden made a little surprised noise but relaxed into it quickly and Lambert felt hands latching onto the front of his gambeson. He could hear Jaskier trying and failing to be quiet as he snuck passed them and hurried out of the library, but neither Witcher paid him any attention.

Lambert only pulled back when he started running out of air. Pale honey eyes looked back at him, crinkling a little around the corners. “What brought this on?” Aiden asked softly, slender fingers tracing under Lambert’s collar. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. Just curious.” Lambert just shrugged, leaning back in to capture the taller Witcher’s lips. Aiden kissed him back, chuckling into it before pull back again. “For the record, I’m not fucking you in a library,” he drawled.

“You never complained before,” Lambert rumbled.

“We’ve never fucked in a library.”

“We fucked in a pantry.”

“A pantry is not a library.”

“’S kinda like a library, for food,” Lambert mumbled into the man’s neck. Aiden snorted but didn’t comment as he hopped down from the window ledge. Lambert stepped back to give him room, then crowded in close as soon as the Cat’s boots touched stone. He tucked his face against the side of the man’s neck, inhaling the comforting scent.

After another few breaths of surprise, Lambert felt long fingers brush through his hair. A hand soothed up the ridge of his spine. He tightened his hands on Aiden’s narrow hips, fingers flexing. He needed to feel, to make sure Aiden was real and whole and _here_.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” Aiden asked worriedly.

“Nothin’,” he mumbled.

He heard Aiden make a questioning noise when but Lambert just shook his head, holding him tighter. The hand on his hand moved, tugging at his hair. “Lambert—”

“I’m fine,” he growled, pulling back from Aiden’s neck just enough to make eye contact. “Really, I’m fine,” he insisted in the face of the older man’s raised eyebrow. “I just—I wanted t’—I’m fine.”

“I think you’ve filled your ‘I’m fine’ quota for the day,” Aiden drawled.

“Then ‘m great.”

Aiden rolled his eyes in fond exasperation, flicking his fingers lightly against Lambert’s skull. “Brat,” he murmured.

“I am fine,” Lambert grumbled. “Really, I just…just wanted to see you,” he settled on, the words dribbling out in an embarrassed mumble. Aiden’s face split with a slow grin, enough to show a hint of teeth.

“That’s sweet,” he purred.

“Shaddup,” Lambert growled, feeling heat flush up the back of his neck. “You, ah, you have a good game with Vesemir?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

Aiden smirked, knowing exactly what he was doing, but as usual he didn’t call out the redirect. “I won almost half of the rounds, which is a marked improvement in my favour,” he drawled, letting his hands fall to Lambert’s shoulders.

“Is it helping?” Lambert blurted out.

Aiden’s smile slipped a little, throat fluttering as he swallowed. “Yeah,” he rasped, licking his lips. “Yeah, talking to him helps.”

“Good, ‘m glad,” he mumbled, hands flexing a little on Aiden’s hips. It took him a moment to realize Aiden was talking to him. “What?” he startled.

Aiden’s smile widened. “I said you’re a good man.”

That certainly didn’t help the blush to Lambert’s neck. It only made it worse, the heat rushing up to encompass his ears. His fingers fiddled with the straps of leather that hung down from the edges of the Cat’s borrowed vest. Aiden always had a way of seeing Lambert in ways other people didn’t have the capacity to, but he wasn’t so sure about that particular statement. “Don’ know who you’ve been talkin’ to,” he mumbled.

“Oh, just a couple wolves. And a songbird,” Aiden drawled.

“Sounds like a kid’s story,” Lambert scoffed.

“Mmm, well, I’m not one for telling bedtime stories to baby goats,” Aiden murmured, a slyness creeping into his smile. “But cuddle me and maybe I’ll tell it to you, pup.” And that’s how Vesemir found them a few hours later—sprawled on the couch with Aiden on top of Lambert, their legs tangled together, and both Witchers fast asleep.

___________________________

The narrow ramparts looked down to the snowed in courtyard and over the glittering white valley. The wind was bitter this high up, with no trees or rocky outcropping to act as a buffer, and Aubry felt the cold whisking through the thickly padded jacket like it wasn’t even there.

They were coming up to the end of winter. It had been months since the last storm had hit and finally locked the Keep’s residents behind thick stone walls. The snow had piled higher and higher up outside until there was no hope of keeping the training yard clear. Since then, they’d trained in the long hall that stretched behind the inner courtyard.

But now the skies overhead, while still grey and broiling, didn’t threaten snow. The sharp scent of damp mountain pine in his nose betrayed the thaw that would be soon on its way. Within a month the snows would recede. Soon, it would be time to go back to the Path.

The thought filled him with an uncomfortable feeling, like a meal sitting too heavily in the pit of his stomach. Or perhaps it is the cramping twist of a belly too long without food. Whatever it felt like, Aubry didn’t like to dwell on it. It had been a cozy winter, filled with blazing fires and warm company, and a particular set of even warmer golden eyes.

Aubry’s felt something in his chest tighten at the thought of the younger Witcher. The two of them had grown close over the winter. That was probably understating it. It hadn’t taken long after the night Aubry had asked Eskel to stay for them to arrange a more permanent sleeping arrangement. When Aiden’s nightmares started keeping them from sleep, they had moved across the hall together.

Aubry hadn’t slept so well in ages. He didn’t get nightmares. He didn’t really dream at all. Sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat with his heart racing and his breath hitching in his chest, but he could never remember why exactly. He never woke from sleep forgetting where he was, never lashed out because he didn’t know who was lying next to him. Not like Aiden. He wasn’t sure if he should be thankful for that or worried that something was broken inside him. The idea about going back to the Path with any sort of liability—

He still had time. They still had time. And he was planning on making the most of every minute of it.

He wasn’t sure how long he was standing there before footsteps against the stone stairs announced the presence of the other Witcher. Aubry spared the older man a brief glance before looking back out over the valley. The silence stretched, buffered by the snow and interrupted by the wind whistling through cracks in the stone. In the far distance a wolf howled, soft and mournful.

“The thaw will be here soon,” Vesemir mused, settling large scarred hands lightly on the stone parapet. “A month until the Pass opens, perhaps a little longer.” Aubry hummed, feeling like the old fencing instructor was building up to something. “Do you think you’re ready?” Vesemir asked, getting to the point far quicker than Aubry had anticipated.

He swallowed thickly, digging his nail into a crack in the stone. He could feel grains of rock scrape free. That feeling was back, the sickly pinching sensation deep in his belly. “I don’t know,” he said softly. 

“Well, at least you still know better than to lie to me,” Vesemir said dryly, pulling a half smirk out of Aubry. The mood sobered quickly with the man’s next words however. “You’re not ready,” Vesemir told him. “You’re signs are still weak. For all the muscle you’ve gained back, your stamina is still suffering. And there’s this.”

A touch pressed into his shoulder, right over a particularly gnarled knot of scar tissue. It didn’t hurt but Aubry could stop himself from flinching. His hip hit stone as he threw himself away from the touch. Vesemir’s eyes held no ounce of pity, but his words were gently when he spoke. “That is a liability, one you cannot afford to have.”

“And what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?” Aubry growled, more angry at himself than Vesemir because deep down, he knew the old Wolf was right.

“Learn,” Vesemir said simply. 

_“Learn,”_ Aubry growled from between clenched teeth, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. “How am I supposed to learn if I can’t—that I don’t—” He bit off the rest of his words, catching his bottom lip between his teeth when he felt it tremble slightly.

Slow measured steps closed the distance between the two men. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Vesemir raised a hand and carefully placed it on Aubry’s shoulder. He shivered a little as thick callused fingers gripped tightly, pressing through the thick padding and into his scars.

The last time someone was touching his scars deliberately, he’d near been blackout drunk. He hadn’t let Eskel anywhere near them since that first night, and the big man had respected the boundary. To say it had put restrictions on their bedroom activities was an understatement, but they made it work and the younger Wolf was nothing but accommodating. Always so careful.

Aubry swallowed, breathing through the gut reaction to pull away. “Good,” Vesemir murmured. “That’s good, pup.” Aubry snorted and shook his head, letting his loose hair fall forward to obscure his face. “Give it time,” he heard Vesemir add softly.

Time. Something Witchers had far more of than the average man, until it was cut short by fang or claw or pitchfork. Yet here he was, whole and yet broken. Ten fingers and toes and two working eyes but useless. “What goods a Witcher who can’t walk the Path?” he mumbled darkly.

“It’s only a season, lad. The continent will still be there,” Vesemir chided gently. “Besides, whose to say a man’s worth must be measured by his profession, hmm?”

Aubry’s eyes snapped up to look through his hair and meet the elder Witcher’s eyes. He’d never thought the stoic swords master would ever say something like that. What the man suggested was pretty near blasphemous against the Witcher code. They weren’t meant to have anything but sword and steel. Vesemir’s eyes were calm and blank as ever, but the hand on Aubry’s shoulder betrayed the man as it flexed slightly.

“It is never too late to learn new things,” the man said simply. He gave Aubry’s shoulder a final squeeze before letting go. His boots clacked against stone as he headed down the stairs without another word, leaving Aubry to his thoughts.

His thoughts, it turned out, were complicated and uncomfortable. He knew the heavy sensation in his chest was guilt. It weighed on him, the thought of his fellow Wolves and Aiden heading back to the path while he stayed cloistered in the Keep like a helpless waif. He’d always been strong, a protector. An idealist, some of the masters had said. Or even worse, a dreamer. Never a good quality in a Witcher, but it had been something that the masters hadn’t been able to train or beat out of him.

But now, maybe someone finally succeeded.

He stayed there for a long while, watching as the horizon glow red as the sun set behind the thick clouds and everything darkened. The few windows below in the base of the Keep sent soft flickers of light out across the snow. Long enough for another pair of footfalls to come looking for him, these light and pattering.

“There you are,” the bard said brightly, bouncing over to stand beside him. “You’re missing dinner.”

“Not really hungry,” he murmured.

“Now, that I don’t believe in a second. Big strapping man like you, missing meals?” Jaskier scoffed, propping a hand under his chin. “So what’s really going on?” Aubry glanced away, looking back out over the rapidly darkening mountains.

Of all the people in the Keep, he’d spent the least amount of time with the bard. Sure, they’d been around each other all winter, especially in the library, but it was Aiden who usually ended up cloistered away with the bard, helping him organize the books. Whenever Aubry went to the library, it was usually in search of some quiet. Jaskier had the tendency to chatter endlessly, as Aubry had found out that first day in Kaer Morhen.

“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” Jaskier was saying. “But sometimes I find it easier to talk to people you aren’t as close with. Makes it easier to admit the difficult things.”

“I can’t imagine much in your life has been very difficult,” Aubry scoffed, eyeing the fancy silks and bright coloured clothing that couldn’t possibly be keeping the man very warm, even if it was under a sturdy well-worn coat at least two or three sizes too big around the shoulders.

“Weren’t you taught never to judge a book by it’s cover?” Jaskier teased lightly, but his tone wasn’t quite right. Aubry didn’t like the tightness around the bard’s eyes and felt his stomach swoop as Jaskier pulled back the coat and tugged up the edge of his doublet and shirt. A swath of pale skin was revealed across his hip and lower back, skin crisscrossed with pale overlapping lines. They looked like lash marks; from a switch or a cane, Aubry couldn’t be sure.

Aubry yanked his eyes up from the pale scars to Jaskier’s face, whose lips were twisted into something bitter. “My father was a cruel man,” the bard said softly. “And then there was the whole thing with Ciri and the Nilfgaardians. She’s safe now, thank the gods, but it got a bit messy, I’m afraid. I ended up very much in the wrong hands for a bit there.”

Jaskier took a shaky breath as he tucked everything neatly back into place, composing himself as he tidied his clothes. “I would never begin to align our experiences,” the man continued. “It does no good to compare pain. But perhaps I might be able to understand, at least in some small way.”

Aubry felt his gaze drop down to his boots, away from those very understanding looking eyes. He worried his lip between his teeth, thinking of what he could say. What would he stay? Where and how could he start? And did he even want to?

“Vesemir thinks I’m weak. That I’m not ready for the Path,” he found himself saying. He expected the bard to say something, perhaps protest that he was sure it wasn’t true, that Aubry was reading into things, but he didn’t.

“And what do you think?” was what Jaskier asked when the silence stretched for a beat too long.

“I think if I don’t go back now, I never will,” he admitted softly.

“And would that be such a bad thing?”

“I—of course it would,” he stuttered.

“Why?” the bard asked simply.

One simple word, yet so complicated a question.

“I…I’d be nothing,” he whispered.

“Nonsense,” Jaskier scoffed, flapping a hand in a vague manner. “There is more to life than the Path, my dear. But I do know how difficult it is to believe that.” The bard chuckled. “Trust me, it took a good many years to break Geralt of that thinking.”

“Of what thinking?” Aubry breathed.

“Thinking he didn’t deserve good things,” Jaskier said softly. “That he didn’t deserve to be happy.”

Aubry swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “He wasn’t always like that,” he murmured. “He and Eskel used to get up to such mischief. Gods, they were incorrigible.”

Jaskier chuckled softly, moving to sit on the lower part of the parapet beside where Aubry stood. “Sometimes I wish I’d known him back then,” he mused, kicking his heels against the stone lightly. “Back before the world got its teeth in him. But then again, I wouldn’t be the man I am today if I hadn’t experienced life the way I did, so I suppose Geralt wouldn’t be the same either.”

“And you wouldn’t change him,” Aubry murmured, saying it like a statement but feeling like he was really asking a question.

“And I wouldn’t change him,” Jaskier replied firmly. “Well, I make him express himself beyond monosyllabic sentences and noises, but partnerships are about compromise. I take him as he is, thorns and all. And sure, I bleed from time to time, but thorns are just how the most beautiful things protect themselves.”

Aubry couldn’t help but snort. The man truly was a bard through and through. And a sappy one at that. Jaskier grinned at him, completely unashamed. “Enough of this sappy romantic muppetry,” he exclaimed, hopping down to his feet. He held out a hand, beckoning. “Come on, I’m hungry and I will not be held responsible for Eskel’s ire if you catch your death up here. I think he’d have something to say if his bedmate came down with the sniffles.”

“Witchers don’t get sniffles,” Aubry grumbled, feeling his ears grow warm at Jaskier calling him Eskel’s bedmate.

“Well, there’s always a first,” the bard called over his shoulder as he clattered his way down the stairs.

The kitchen was borderline humid in contrast to the outside evening air, and Aubry found himself quickly shedding his outer layers and rolling up his shirtsleeves. The others were already crowded around the table, roast potatoes and the hares Aubry and Geralt had trapped earlier in the day piled high on their plates. Jaskier was just settling down between Geralt and Aiden, and launched immediately into an animated discussion about a book he’d just found from the Cat school before it was burned.

Eskel smiled as he approached, and shoved Lambert further down the bench to make room. This put Aubry on the end next to Vesemir. Dinner was its usual rowdy affair and everyone scattered soon after. Vesemir interrupted Jaskier from absconding with Aiden to the library in search of more Cat books, asking the slim Witcher to join him upstairs for a moment. So Jaskier was currently in the process of badgering Lambert to help instead, while the youngest Witcher was giving all of his best excuses.

Aubry reached out, latching fingers into the back of Eskel’s shirt and slowly him incrementally, letting the other three disappear down the hall. Eskel threw a curious glance over his shoulder as the bard’s voice continued to each off stone long after he and the other two Witcher’s disappeared from sight. Aubry stepped closer, feeling the heat radiating from the younger man’s body as he pressed them together, chest to back. He leaned in close.

“Kinda want you all to myself this evening, if you’re not opposed,” he breathed.

He felt the shiver that rippled up the younger man’s back as Eskel leaned back against him slightly. “Oh?” he rumbled. “And what kinda things do you want me for?”

“Mmmm, I can think of a few things.”

Later, he found himself sprawled out on his stomach next to the younger Wolf, sweaty and content as Eskel scratched lazy fingers through his hair. The room was warm, the fireplace crackling comfortingly against the far wall, and the furs underneath his skin was soft. “Tha’ feels nice,” he mumbled.

Eskel hummed, letting his fingers wander down the back of Aubry’s neck, up around the shell of his ear, down the side of his jaw, then back up. Aubry arched into the touch as it traced back down the side of his neck. The touch paused for a moment, hesitant, before lightly brushing across the top of his shoulder—a barely there pressure over the numbed ridges of scar tissue.

The touch was so light Aubry didn’t even think to tense up against it. He barely noticed it until Eskel’s fingers traced down his ribs, over ridges and pockmarks, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He shivered, closing his eyes against the vulnerable sensations fluttering in his belly. He felt the Eskel pause. “Is this alright?” Eskel asked softly.

“Yeah,” Aubry rasped, turning his head to rest on his forearms so he could look over into the younger Wolf’s face. “Yeah.”

Eskel’s dark eyes were warm and soft as he shifted a little closer. Aubry felt the touch, still featherlight, traced back towards his spine. It traced the whorls and dips of the scars, following the carefully carved edges.

Slowly, Aubry felt the tension bleed back out from his muscles, relaxing back down into the furs. He let his eyes flutter closed. It seemed to go on for a long while, the younger man carefully mapping out every inch of his back until Aubry finally felt Eskel’s hand flatted, palm pressing lightly between his shoulder blades. Right between the wolf’s eyes.

“Felt nice,” Aubry sighed, opening his eyes again. The room was darker than it had been before. The firelight flickers softly over Eskel’s bare skin, sending darker shadows across his face.

“Good,” Eskel murmured, carefully smoothing his hand up to the base of Aubry’s neck and began to massage the base of his skull.

“And that feels amazing,” Aubry added, feeling his eyes fluttering again.

A deep rumble of a chuckle reverberated up from the other man’s throat. “I’m glad,” Eskel murmured. “I’m…not used to giving massages.”

“I’d say you’ve picked up the general idea,” Aubry chuckled, biting back a groan as Eskel’s strong finger dug into a knot where his neck met his shoulder. He let the pain wash over him, the good kind of pain that comes with healing and release, breathing deeply. “I don’t think I’m going back to the Path,” he found himself saying.

The hand on his neck stilled. Aubry kept his eyes closed, not knowing if he would like what he’d see in Eskel’s eyes at the sudden confession. “Not this season at least,” he said, backpedaling a little. “I know I’m not ready and I—I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if I don’t.”

The hand on his shoulder moved up to cup the base of his skull. He felt the bed shift as Eskel drew closer and then a light pressure pushed against the centre of his forehead. Aubry opened his eyes, finding himself nose to nose with the other Wolf. He felt the air of the man’s words brush against his face. “Alright.”

He pulled back an inch, just enough to be able to meet those warm golden eyes. Eskel just shrugged and Aubry felt the man’s thumb brush across the ridge of his cheekbone. “I used to think the Path was everything we got to have,” he said softly. “But now I’m not so sure. I saw the way Jaskier changed Geralt—”

His brow furrowed and dipped down. “No, that’s not right. I saw the way Geralt changed _because_ of Jaskier. He would walk away from the Path, drop everything and run if that damned bard asked him to and…I guess after getting to know you, I finally understand the impulse.”

Aubry knew he was staring, and Eskel’s face flushed, the tips of his ears burning a deep pink. He cleared his throat nervously. “The Pass won’t be open for another month still,” he mumbled, fingers flexing against the back of Aubry’s neck. “Don’t have to worry about anything yet and if you decide to…retire…if you decide that, you’ll always have a place here. That isn’t something that would ever change.”

Aubry swallowed against the soft ache in his throat. He didn’t trust his words. This was a feeling bigger than simple words could convey. So instead he leaned forward, closing the scant inches between them, and pressed his chapped lips to Eskel’s. He felt the other man respond, shuffling even closer as the hand on Aubry’s neck moved up to tangle in his hair.

The fire burned low, down to nothing but glowing embers, yet neither Wolf seemed to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! I hope you are still enjoying the journey. And, as always, feedback is my fairy dust! xx

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't really written for this fandom before. But I had this idea pop into my head and refuse to come out. I've only watched the show and read fanfictions, so all my info comes from that and extensive googling. Consider any discrepancies part of the AU, I guess?
> 
> Feedback is my fairy dust! Hope you enjoyed the read!


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